For a Tin Star
by bugsfic
Summary: You risk your skin catching killers and the juries turn them loose so they can come back and shoot at you again. If you're honest, you're poor your whole life and in the end you wind up dying all alone on some dirty street. For what? For nothing. For a tin star.
1. Chapter 1

_Written with Aussiegirl41_

_Spoilers: Use of all the Ashes to Ashes and Life on Mars canon._

_A/N: After watching the series 'together', Aussie and I looked at each other virtually and said, "You know what this means, don't you?" So we had to write. What this is will be is the question._

* * *

"No one on earth can feel like this." Skin soft as his mam's breast, yielding to his grip, tearing to bloom red and lovely, the colour of passion.

Must calm her. Twitching like a fluttering bird in his fingers. "Overblown with bliss," he suggested, lips at her ear. Just a nip, a taste, her sweet sweat on his tongue.

The heel of his palm—there. Hard. The crack of bone. Not even a scream but a gasp of a last breath. "There's more of us at home," he promised and he could hear the rustle of his watching shadow, crouched in a stagnant puddle of piss, there and not there.

She must fly away now. The knife's blade, unlacing her cardigan's stitches, careful. Precise. Can't be too excited yet. Not finished.

Still, he could barely choke out, "Playing with my heart," as he spread her ragged wings and posed her legs just so—she was ready to leap off the station platform, a gentle spirit, too pure for this filthy world.

A grotesque croak from behind. "Get off, ye' bastard."

Now there was fear. This corvus, wide-spanned, ready to blind with his sharp blows. But then black was white.

"I must be hallucinating." Light in the dark tunnel, bright as an oncoming train.

"What've you done there?! Get back!" Knocked aside, one big lad and the little lad; bad boys both.

Black gloved fingers touching her dead-white cheeks. But she belonged to the heavens, not this vulture. A pipe, heavy but not too heavy. Knock the bird from its wire and it fell to earth, tumbling down to the train tracks. And the light shown, the whistle screamed, screamed like the angel never did.

* * *

A man's body was caught on a cross of torch beams, a fallen scarecrow of long, akimbo limbs and a lolled head, the mouth slack. One police constable immediately radioed for a medic while another advanced warily along the unlit train platform. Drake followed, her palm resting on the unfamiliar weapon holstered at her waist.

The PC rolled the body cautiously and the man's arm flung out as he settled on his back, leaving him bared to their view. Clean white shirt, blue tie, and dark suit, waistcoat and overcoat.

"Life signs?" Drake questioned.

The constable leant over, training his torch on the pale face and closed eyelids.

At the sound of her voice, the man's eyes snapped open, but he didn't blink at the harsh light. His head lifted and although Drake knew he couldn't see her in the shadows, his gaze was still on her. His nostrils flared, taking a deep breath. She sensed him catching her scent, like an animal on the hunt.

"Careful, sir," said the PC, offering his hand. When the man made it to his feet, he was tall, looming over them all, his fair head lost in the darkness.

"What are you doing here?" asked Drake, still wary, although the subject for whom they searched was a short East Asian. This man, rubbing his head in pain, appeared to be a possible victim of the suspected terrorist.

"I fell," he said, his tone clipped.

"Off a train?" asked one of the constables.

"Yes," the man said slowly but appeared puzzled.

The trains had been stopped from entering the station over an hour ago when the police had set up the security perimeter. "Did you disembark from a train earlier today?" Drake corrected gently. "Have you been lost down here?"

The man honed in on her. "No," he said, but there was a question in his voice.

Moving close, she cast up her torch's light. Worn, scarred features, a contrast to the fine linen of his snowy shirt collar and blue silk tie. A slash for a mouth, tight, holding back any speech but what was necessary. Dark-ringed silver eyes, their gaze sliding across her face, then settling on her lips. Their colour warmed to molten mercury.

"What're you doin' here?" he rasped as though he was in great pain. "I've missed you—"

And then he touched her. His palm cradled her cheek, his thumb stroking down towards her quivering mouth. His hand was in a black glove but the leather was warm and supple as human skin. His long eyelashes fluttered to close. His head dipped towards hers and with shock, she realised he was going to kiss her. "Bolly," he murmured at her lips.

She would not show fear but could not allow him to continue. She stepped out of his touch. The moment had been so brief that her escorts had no time to react and yet she felt as though it had been an hour.

"You're mistaking me for someone else," she said definitely. "I'm not your Polly. I'm a detective inspector with the Met. We're searching for a suspect. You must leave."

His chin went up and of all things, his lips formed a little boy's petulant pout. He blinked as though clearing his vision and looked her up and down before saying, "'spose I've made a mistake," his tone as distant as hers. She noted that he had a Northern dialect.

Only then did she see a trickle of blood coming out of his hairline on his left temple. "Did you strike your head?" She ran her fingers through his short hair, searching for the source of blood.

Confusion on his face, he pushed his hand along the other side of his head. "Me hair," he muttered. "Where's it gone?"

"It's right there," she said soothingly. Male vanity; his hair wasn't thinning very much for a man of his age. Over her shoulder, she barked, "Status on that medical assist?"

"They need an armed escort to come down here. Azmat still isn't captured—"

"I'm fine," the man growled. "I can get up top on my own." He looked around. "Why's the lights out?"

"We're in a service tunnel of Euston Station," she told him. "The power appears to have been cut."

He rubbed his thumb on his chin and narrowed his eyes. "What's the scumbag done?"

Sergeant Campbell from Armed Response apparently decided to step in and take charge. Cradling his assault rifle, he told the man: "Sir, we need to get you out of here—"

"Yeah, let's get outta here," the man said. Somehow he was standing close to Drake again, near enough for her to feel his breath on her hair. When she dared to glance up, he was watching her intently.

Head injury cases commonly had fixed gazes, she recalled from her first aid training courses. "This way," she said softly, taking his arm. To the others she directed: "I want to check in with the Guv and see where we're at with this. Tired of poking around in the dark."

"We'll leave this to the lads," the stranger agreed. "We've got more pressing matters to attend to."

With a constable leading the way, they retreated through the tunnels until a service door disengorged them back into the brightly lit North Line platform. The heavy door closing echoed eerily in the empty platform. The evacuation must have been completed while Drake's team had been searching the tunnels.

She stopped to get her bearings. "We'll be good from here," she told the PC and sent him back to rejoin the others.

The man was intently examining a wall poster for the upcoming Nelson Mandela ninetieth birthday concert in Hyde Park. He pushed out his lips again. "Bloody hell," he groused. "You were right."

"Excuse me?" she said, still on edge. The vast, bright emptiness of the platform area was just as ominous as the dark tunnels.

He shifted closer, a rueful smile lifting the corner of his mouth before it set again in a hard line. She fought the urge to step away. In her work, Alex was very conscious of personal space. Mindful of being a female in policing, a harsh environment of aggression and violence, she maintained physical and emotional distance at all times, but strove to never give the impression of retreat or fear. Tall for a woman, she usually had her physical presence on her side.

Not with this man. He loomed over her, his wide shoulders and cape-like coat blocking out everything but she and him. Yet his presence didn't trigger anxiety or uncertainty. She was just a bit pissed off at the humour in his eyes, as though he was in on some joke and she didn't understand the punchline.

"2008—" he muttered, still looking at the poster.

"Sir, let's get that bump on your head looked at," she said, worried at his disoriented manner.

"Sure," he said, straightening his shoulders. He strode off confidently, belaying her concern momentarily.

They rode the escalators up to the street, standing shoulder to shoulder on the same stair. Once outside, Drake pointed the man towards the first aid station that had been set up for any casualties. Her attention back on her work, she hurried to the command tents, pulling off her bulletproof vest, intent on checking in with the tactical team. Nodding at the other officers, she also removed her weapon and laid it on the table covered with maps. Not accustomed to carrying a gun, it was a relief to remove its weight and heated threat from her side.

Their suspect, Ali Azmat, had been on Special Branch's radar for months as yet another young possibly radicalised young man with an Islamic background. His phone was bugged and his home watched. Alex Drake had been brought in to shadow the surveillance in the hope that more could be learnt about profiling homegrown terrorists. What would turn the son of a curry shop owner and apparently non-religious young man into a jihadist? But overnight, Azmat had pushed them to action. He'd purchased the components for homemade bombs, then suddenly disappeared. The last location on his mobile phone had been the Euston station, sending all branches into full response mode.

Helicopters roared overhead, scouring the streets. PC's moved along the kerbs, hooking up cars to be towed away.

"One little twat's down there and you've got how many men chasing him around?" came from behind her. The man hadn't heeded her instructions.

"Excuse me, sir." She turned to face him, trying to keep her patience. "But you need to see the medical staff. This is an on-going situation—"

He leant against an armoured response team van and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, quickly lighting one. She stared pointedly at the offending object, wrinkling her nose at the curling smoke, but he seemed not to notice.

"Just push 'im out like a 'ard turd," the man suggested, bending over to view the maps laid out on a folding table under the tent.

"Sir, really—"

The man leant close once again, but this time peering at her face in an impersonal manner. "Have you ever been shot, Alex?" he asked clinically.

A chill had passed down her spine. "I don't recall telling you my name," she noted.

"One of your lads—"

"No." She swung around to stand before him, hands on her hips. "None of my officers would refer to me by first name."

His lips twitched in what she was coming to know as his smile. "Course not."

Going on the offensive herself, she peppered him with questions: "What were you doing in the service tunnel? You said you were on a train. But the Virgin tracks are on the other side of the station."

His gaze dropped. She noticed that he did that often, but in no way did it appear submissive. He took a drag from his cigarette. "Got off me train a stop too soon—"

"Bullshit," she hissed, her training fleeing in one shocking moment. She never lost her temper like this.

Drake's superior, DCI Meg Harper, appeared from the cluster of dark uniforms. "DI Drake, who's this?" the older woman asked.

The man raised his eyebrows at the sight of the petite grey-haired woman. "Who're you?" he retorted. Hearing his belligerent tone, Harper's team of investigators and uniformed officers formed a protective ring around her.

Wanting to show her Governor that she could handle this situation, Drake put up a hand to hold the stranger back. "Sir, you must go to medical services, now!"

Her authoritative manner seemed to reassure Harper. The superior and her team moved away and returned to their discussion of the crisis.

But the man wasn't cowed. "Right," he barked, "let's get this poofter."

One deep breath. "Sir. You will go see a medic. Thank you." She turned back to the table and forced herself to exude calm energy and focus on the search areas completed. Footfall strode away and she allowed herself a small smirk of satisfaction.

She just had to look. Sure enough, when she peeked over her shoulder, he was gone. She was surprised at the twinge of disappointment that she felt. Then her gaze moved to the table where she left her weapon.

It was gone as well.

Snatching up a baton and hand-held radio, Alex hurried away from the command area, her heart thumping erratically. Surely her gun was simply picked up by one of the Armed Response officers, bent on teaching her a lesson for her carelessness.

She caught the attention of a paramedic loitering by his ambulance.

"Tall man, blond, dark suit and overcoat—"

The medic just shook his head. Then she spotted the sweep of a billowing black overcoat and a fair head down the street—it was him. Without thinking, she broke into a run, just keeping him in view as he disappeared around a shuttered betting shop and into an alley.

When she reached the corner, she pressed against wall and peered into the alleyway cautiously. He crouched by a ventilation grate. Extending the baton with a snap of her wrist, she crept forward. A voice in her head was screaming this was the stupidest thing that she'd ever done. But something was drawing her towards this man.

As he had in the dark tunnel, he sensed her presence and turned his head slowly to meet her gaze. Putting one leatherbound finger to his lips, his eyes held hers. He had a weapon—her gun—in his hand. Her stomach lurched; she was too close to flee safely. But instead of threatening her, he motioned for her to join him.

She would need to be closer to strike the gun from his hand. Taking another step, then another...she was almost there—

Grasping the grate, the man yanked it up and aside, and the alley suddenly exploded in sound—the clank of heavy metal, the screams of a young man whose voice still hadn't changed and deep guttural curses as he hauled Azmat up by his jumper collar.

He pressed the gun's muzzle to the young man's temple. "Yer nicked," he growled. "Got cuffs?" he asked her as he ground Azmat's face into the filthy tarmac.

Grappling with her radio and baton, she fumbled for her handcuffs and handed them over without question. He snapped them on Azmat's wrists tightly, gaining another whine from the suspect.

Quickly, she was formulating a plan. He seemed to want to assist her, and she would use that to get him into custody as well. She didn't need a gun; her greatest weapon was her negotiating ability.

"Thank you," she gushed. "Let's get him back to the security area."

Just as she hoped, the man smirked with satisfaction. He bodily tossed Azmat in a crumpled heap at her feet. "He's yours."

She forced the grateful smile to remain on her lips; he was too smug by half.

"How did you know to look here?" she asked, flicking her gaze around the alleyway warily. Were these two men working together? Had she just fallen into some elaborate terrorist trap?

"Just used me nouse, that's all," the man replied, tapping his nose with the tip of his finger.

"Do you know the suspect?"

"How the bloody hell would I know this raghead piece of scum?" The toe of his shoe found the side of Azmat's body as he spoke.

"Sir!" She jumped in between the men, shielding the prisoner on the ground. Her helpful citizen sneered, clearly not impressed with her concern over the young terrorist.

"Soft," he scoffed, but then turned her gun around to hand it to her, handle first.

"Yours," he said.

Relief washed over her as the weapon was finally back in her grasp.

"I—"

"Let's get this prat tucked in the paddy wagon," the man said, dragging a whining Azmat, half-walking, half-limp, back toward the security set-up. Alex trotted after him, feeling one part ineffectual, one part angry.

She protested, "If you could just—" but the man paid her no heed.

When they were back on the street, they were first spotted by the squad leader of the Armed Response Unit. "Is that him?" the commander called out as the odd little trio swept past.

"Yes, it is," Alex tossed over her shoulder. She ran ahead a bit to communicate what really was happening to the other forces.

Her sergeant had arrived. Welton waddled a bit from the stiff bulletproof vest and various weapons strapped to his thick waist. "DI Drake," he started excitedly.

"Got Azmat," she said quickly, motioning behind her. "But we need to arrest that man," she added, her voice low.

DS Welton blinked, then gave a short nod. He had years on the streets before being assigned under Drake. He quickly handed her a set of handcuffs without being asked.

She slipped them in her pocket and turned to face the man leading their suspect. Her sincere smile was back. "The Metropolitan Police thanks you, Mr.—" She realised that he'd never given her a name.

He pushed the young man towards a couple of constables, obviously no longer interested in the suspect. "You really don't know who I am?" he said, sounding hurt.

When she said, "No," he moved into her space again. This time she did sense danger for some reason; overwhelmed and out of her depth.

She stepped back but gripped his wrist while pulling out the handcuffs. "Sir, we've going to ask that you come with us to aid us in our inquiries—"

"You're arresting me?" he growled as he twisted his wrist to grab her hand.

"Step away from her!" ordered Welton.

"Piss off," the man barked over his shoulder.

Drake was shielded by the stranger's broad back from seeing her sergeant. Suddenly, there was an explosive sound and the man's body jerked. His jaw clenched and his eyes, that had been glued to hers, filled with rage and pain. She grabbed for him. "Sir! Sir!"

He crumpled to the ground, Alex hanging onto him all the way down.

"What the hell did you do!?" she yelled at Welton. He was staring at the black and yellow gun in his hand, obviously as stunned as she was. Two thin coiled wires ran from the weapon to Gene's twitching body.

"Turn that damn thing off!" ordered Drake, still clinging to the man's hand.

"The current's stopped," Welton helpfully told her, but she was too busy taking count of the man's racing pulse to care about his contrite tone.

Another constable swooped in, yanking the man's hand from her, taking his other, and fastening them with handcuffs behind his back.

"Be careful with him!" Drake sputtered.

He seemed half-conscious, trying to catch his breath.

Although he'd taken her gun, she still began to pat him down for weapons and contraband. She found his mobile phone and put it aside. Next there was his wallet; she flipped it open to see his identification—

It wasn't a wallet. It was a police officer's warrant card holder.

"DCI...Gene Hunt," she read slowly, not believing the name even as she said it aloud. It couldn't be—

"Present and accounted for," the man groaned out.

End ~ Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

"It's an orchestra of angels."

Her screams weren't the melodic strains he'd expected. Her voice was hoarse and harsh and must be quieted. Too loud, the naughty boy claimed, don't wake the dead.

His hands around her neck, squeezing.

All around him shudders. The brick and mortar convulsed with the force of the string of carriages. All those passengers unaware that they were so close. The voice of an angel faded with the train passing, heading on to the next station.

No death yet, the voices warned. She must know when it is her time to face her saviour. "Must be talking to an angel."

He loosened his grip.

She gulped for oxygen, her blue-tinged lips flapping like those on a fish out of water. She was still conscious, but her hosannas remained silenced.

The knife, they said. Take the knife.

He was getting better with the knife. It had taken more strength than he'd reckoned. A human body was a paradox — brittle and fragile, and so easy to mould into his kaleidoscope, but an incorrect angle meant you had to saw through resilient gristle, sinew, and bone.

The pose would help.

"No one on earth could feel like this."

Another train started towards him. More noise. Drowning out the slash of the blade and the door opening, letting in another angel.

X

Alex looked from the warrant card with the sneering photograph to the real life man who pushed away the medic who was attempting to check his vital signs. Slumping on the bumper of the ambulance, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

"Gene Hunt," the man repeated as he blew out smoke.

Clenching her jaw, this time Alex managed to control her reaction. A name she'd heard a hundred times while interviewing DCI Sam Tyler, but only spoken to her in confidential sessions. Gene Hunt; a man who hadn't existed when she had checked the Greater Manchester Police staff records from the 1970's...obviously a fabrication formed in an injured brain...Now before her, just as Sam had described him, right down to the arrogant manner and smug expression. And the ubiquitous cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Where are you from?" she asked carefully.

Of course he said, "Manchester."

Something was very wrong. But as she started to speak, Welton piped up. "DCI Hunt?"

She stared at her junior, dumbstruck. He didn't have access to her medical case files.

"There was no Gene Hunt working in Manchester in 1973," she insisted, gaining a confused glance from her sergeant.

Hunt squinted up at her. "Well, that's good," he said, "Because I work here now," he added triumphantly, "Manchester, that is. Not London." He shifted his eyes.

Alex pursed her mouth. This man was no Derek Jacobi treading the boards of the National Theatre. He may be trying to put her on, but the card was real. Perhaps the answer was simple; Sam Tyler had worked with Hunt at some point and had incorporated this man into his delusions. She would have to check into this later, excited that she finally may be able to resolve that unsettling suicide. For now, she had to get back to the current crisis.

"You're Gene Hunt?" Welton echoed. "Oh dear."

"There a problem, chum?" sneered Hunt, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"You—You're—" Welton visibly swallowed. "You're here to work with us on a case."

Hunt's face went blank. "Sure," he said slowly.

"He is?" asked Alex. "Why didn't I know of that?"

DCI Harper and several other officers arrived, drawn by the news of the arrest of Azmat. Alex tried to explain the confusion, flustered and irritated by the smirk that played on Hunt's mouth as she floundered.

Harper didn't appear to notice. Her pale eyes were bright. "We'll need a statement for the press. I think you've earned a moment in the spotlight."

Alex shook her head violently, her cheeks flushed. She could feel Gene Hunt's amused gaze on her. "Not at all. It's for you as the DCI."

Her superior looked disappointed. She often pushed Alex forward, proclaiming that the younger officer was the future of the Met.

With the uncomfortable silence, Welton, dogged as always, picked his thread up again. "DI Drake, you've been on this Azmat situation," explained the DS. "I'd just put the status update on the Angel case in your office today, but you must have left before reading it. Hampstead had found this chap—" Hunt looked outraged to be addressed thusly. "In the mid-80's, DCI Hunt worked a murder at the Eastend station, Fenchurch East—"

"He must have been just a constable," interjected Alex, talking about Hunt as though he wasn't there.

His face remained unreadable. "Yeah," he drawled and took another drag at his smoke.

Welton leant against the table across from Hunt's perch. "You may remember, the Fenchurch East station burned down in 1985 and most of the records were lost or damaged."

Hunt shook his head. "I hadn't."

The sergeant continued: "DI Drake has been profiling a serial killer currently at work here in London. In our search of cold cases' crime scene photographs, one case matched our killer's M.O. Unfortunately, the only report we could find was heavily water-stained but for your signature at the bottom. We traced you to Manchester, and here you are." Welton gave a tentative smile. "On secondment with us. To see if you can offer any insight."

"Here I am." Hunt grubbed out his cigarette under his heel and stood with a groan of pain. Welton had the grace to wince. "I was chasing a murdering bastard in '85, but he'd killed more than one—"

Alex cut in. "A constable?"

Hunt said, "I was a plod who got around," waving off the medic's continued fussing.

"You need rest," Welton pointed out, still looking pained at his role in Hunt's condition. "The department provides housing for out of town officers—I've made arrangements—"

Alex sighed in relief. This situation seemed to be resolving itself with a minimum of embarrassment in the eyes of her superior. Harper was already murmuring with one of her junior officers, her attention distracted.

"Welton will get you squared away and I'll see you at New Scotland Yard first thing tomorrow—" Alex turned her back, dismissing the irritating man. "There's hours of paperwork," she grumbled under her breath.

But as he'd done, Hunt was suddenly there at her elbow, overhearing. "Sod paperwork. That's what WPC's are for."

"WPC's?" she said, glaring over her shoulder. "What century are you living in?" She made a mental note to give him a quick chat about gender equality before working even one minute with this man.

"We'll be moving Azmat to a safehouse location immediately," Harper told Alex, apparently choosing to ignore Hunt. "Keep him under wraps."

Naturally Hunt butted right in. "All that for some little Paki?" he said, lighting another cigarette off the still smouldering remnants of his last.

"Excuse me?" DS Hassen of Special Branch said, raising his brows. Alex mentally added cultural sensitivity to her list.

"Sounds like he's just some kid in over his head," Hunt pronounced.

Harper and Drake folded their arms and glared at him. The superior said, "DCI Hunt, perhaps you haven't had an opportunity to work many of these jihadist cases, but we can assure you—"

"See, I was a little shit like this one," Hunt said. "Thought I was cock of the block—" His gaze drifted over Drake's body, and she found herself feeling more outraged if that was possible. "But the truth was, when the guns were drawn, my balls shrivelled right up and fell off." He rubbed his head ruefully, then stared at the dark bloodstain on his glove for a moment before continuing. "If he hasn't popped off yet, he's not going to. He was scared. He was trapped. He was just looking for a way out."

"You're able to profile our suspect after five minutes when I've been working this case for months—" ranted Alex.

He looked as affronted as she felt. "Profiling? That's your prancing pony in the circus, DI Drake. Me, I'm just an old street copper."

Ever helpful, Welton said, "DI Drake, I've placed DCI Hunt in that rental flat in your building. Thought it would be more convenient for all parties. Why don't you drop him off?"

She fought aggravation, particularly when Hunt's eyes lit up at this news. "Excellent idea," she ground out.

"Special Branch will be doing the mop-up and will deal with Azmat," Welton pointed out. "You have to get back on the Angel killings," he added.

She took a deep breath. Yes, her sergeant was right. She must focus on her case. This Hunt person, despite being a spectacular pain in the arse, could also be a useful tool, not only with a dangerous serial killer, but wrapping up a very important part of her book on the mental state of police officers. However, if he gave her even one more minute of aggravation, she'd kick him to the kerb.

"Come on then," she muttered ungraciously, and stomped off before Hunt could respond. His long strides made it easy for him to keep pace, however.

Beyond the security perimeter, she found her car and waved him towards the passenger side as he seemed to be headed for the driver's. She unlocked it with a beep of the alarm but he remained standing outside it, looking suspiciously at it.

"You can take a cab," she suggested, half-hopeful.

He opened his door as an answer. With a huff, she took the driver's seat.

"Seat belt, please," she said, a smile pasted on her face as she fastened her own. She wasn't sure why this man singularly infuriated her so much, but she couldn't recall being this angry for this long since her marriage fell apart.

"I'm not some Nancy nun," he insisted. "No death harness for me!"

"Fine," she hissed, and started the vehicle. The warning alarm begin to ding. He furrowed his brow.

She pulled away and the chiming became louder and more insistent.

"What the hell sort of motor is this thing?" he asked. "The engine sounds like shit!"

"It's not the engine. It's an alarm alerting us."

"What's it alerting you of; being some pouncy driver? Lord, woman! Press that pedal under your right foot!"

She bellowed, trying to drown him out, "It's warning me that I'm trapped in my auto with an idiot! Put on your bloody seat belt and it will stop!"

"There's no way to turn it off?" he said sulkily.

"No!"

Grumbling the entire time, he made a grand production of pulling the belt across and fastening it into its clip, his gloved hands brushing at her thigh.

She glared at him. He raised his eyebrows, affecting innocence. She was having none of it, and did increase her speed...The sooner she could dump this man off at the flat, the better. She wasn't one to discount fellow officers before she had a chance to know them, but if he thought she was some weak female that he could push around, he had another thing coming—

He pulled out his cigarette packet, put one in his mouth and fumbled for his lighter.

"Excuse me!" she roared, tapping her finger on a no-smoking sticker adhered to the dashboard.

He gasped, indignant, and crumpled the offending object in his large hand, scattering tobacco all over the floor mat. Sulking, he craned his neck to stare at the window at the passing scenery.

She noticed that his long legs were crammed up under the dash.

"You can move the seat back," she said, still sounding unfriendly.

"Ta," he muttered, groping between his legs.

Stopping for a light, she reached across and pressed the side button to release the seat. It glided back fully. Hunt made a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

"Better," he said.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as she escalated with the green light. He'd stretched out his impossibly long legs but was still peering out the window with curiosity.

"City changed a lot since you lived here?" she asked, trying to find her equilibrium with this man.

He nodded without replying.

Perversely, she found herself unable to remain silent. "I've lived here all my life and it's changed a great deal."

He didn't reply. This time she could stay quiet. Examining him out of the corner of her eye, she began her profile. The anomalies always struck her first, and must be explained. His suit was beautifully cut and made; obviously very expensive. This could be explained by perhaps a one time purchase for a special event; wedding or funeral. But why wear it for a travel day, when it could be spoiled? He didn't seem the sort to care about first impressions.

He tugged his tie loose to pop open the first button on his shirt.

The silk tie was plain with no pattern, but costly. The shirt was also obviously expensive. The very finely woven cotton lay perfectly across his chest; no visible vest underneath. The sleeves were french cuffed; not the norm for a northern flatfoot sort. Very simple cufflinks of brushed steel, but somehow, that gave them more style.

The clothing did not match the man, particularly not the man that had been described to her by DCI Tyler. Perhaps his wife had selected these garments, and demanded that he wear them, thinking it could help his career. She couldn't really see him as under any woman's thumb though...

She checked his left hand. No ring. Not unusual for a middle-aged man to slip off a ring after heading out of town for extended periods, she'd found...

Suddenly, she was aware that he was watching her. That he had seen her focused on his ring finger. Her face flushed but she forced herself to meet his gaze, her own defiant.

But his cheeks were red as well—was he blushing? And his gaze wasn't smug or leering, but wonder-filled. Then his eyes dropped like a shy boy's would.

Her profile on Gene Hunt was not coming together cleanly at all.

She was grateful to pull into a precious parking spot right before her building. "Here we are!" she announced, triumphant. She flung open her door and the warning bell began dinging.

"What the hell is this mouse trap of a car?" he harped. "This things got more bells than the Blackpool midway!"

Yanking the key from the ignition so the alarm ceased, she said, "I assume that you've cut the wires on your auto's alarms?"

"I wouldn't have anything with all this shit," he blustered, finally swinging his long legs out of her car and stood, slamming the door harder than necessary.

Grateful, she hopped out as well and activated the alarm which set off a series of high-pitched chirps. He rolled his eyes, and tugging his coat around him, joined her on the kerb.

"You have no luggage," she noted for the first time.

"I'll make do," he said, striding up to the building as though he didn't have a care in the world.

"It's down this way," Alex called to him, standing on stairs leading to a garden flat. "The owner of the building, Mr Nettles, rents out the basement bedsit and we snag it when we have visiting officers—"

Gene followed. "Making a farthing off the Met then?"

"It's not like that—" Alex unlocked the door and gave him the key. "Let me show you around quickly. I've got to pick up my daughter from ballet."

"Yeah, your daughter," he said slowly.

"Yes, I have a daughter," she said, trying to keep up a facade of polite but distant friendliness. It was difficult when this man filled the compact flat with his wide shoulders. He looked around.

She pointed out the no-smoking sign and he rolled his eyes. "You can go to the garden," she chided. He pooched his lips.

Ignoring his attitude, she continued brightly: "Right. All the comforts of home." She waved her hand towards the kitchenette along one wall. "Kettle and fridge. Plenty of takeaway on Upper Street, but there's a microwave if you want to get something to heat up."

"Microwave," he said slowly.

Seeing the late hour, she started; it was supper time. Checking the fridge's freezer compartment, she pulled out an instant dinner left by the last occupant. "You're probably too knackered to go out tonight. This will do. Just follow the directions on the box." She lamely pushed it towards him on the worktop. He glanced at it and nodded.

Moving to the lounge area, she picked up the remote. "New flat screen," she said approvingly. He just nodded, his face blank. He was starting to make her nervous. "Do you have a laptop? There's wireless."

"No?" His reply sounded like a question.

"Loo through there, of course." She was babbling and couldn't seem to stop. "Sette and then the bed folds down out of the wall."

"Bed," he said, the three letters somehow sounding like a threat.

She had to get out of here. "Yes, well, I better be going. What's your mobile number?"

"Wha'?"

"In the event that I get called out on a case. Otherwise, I'll see you at the station at eight sharp. Tube station is at the corner."

He still looked confused.

"Your phone." She lay her hand on his chest, slipping it inside his suit jacket and waistcoat to find his shirt pocket; she'd noted Welton returning the phone there, all the while garbling his apologies.

But touching Hunt was a terrible mistake.

His body heat made the fine cotton of his shirt slick as silk. Under her palm, his heartbeat was mesmerising, seeming to fill her head as a jungle drum's thud. He was watching her again. Had his gaze ever been off her since they'd met?

"Here," she gasped, pulling the phone out with her fingertips as though it was burning hot.

His head tipped in surprise. "That's a phone?"

"Yes, it must be your phone. It's in your pocket." She was concerned. "Perhaps we should take you to A&amp;E. You still appear to be disoriented. There's your head injury, and then the tasering—"

"I'll be fine," he said, his tone broaching no argument. "It's a phone? ...A new phone for me."

With fumbling fingers, she entered her numbers into his phone, then rang through to hers so she had his number. He observed her carefully the entire time.

She could tell that he had no idea how to use the device; so like a man to buy something beyond his knowledge. She quickly reviewed a few of the features for him, including the voice memo. "I find this really helpful for taking notes. With these killings being so long ago, it would be good to quickly record any thoughts before they're forgotten," she explained.

"Yeah, my memory's not what it used to be." His mocking tone was back and once more, she saw this street-wise copper was going to be a tough one.

She returned the phone with a steely glare. He only gave her a quick, knowing smile before his taciturn mask was back in place.

"Ta," he murmured, slipping into his waistcoat pocket. He was watching her still, endlessly. It was like drowning in an undertow, slow and deadly.

She couldn't stop talking. "I'm sure it's been a long day for you."

His hands were deep in his pockets and he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Had longer. Some days feel like a lifetime."

Dusk was falling outside the high garden windows. She should go. But something in this man's tone made her linger by the door.

Then he said, "You never told me if you'd been shot."

She decided to go on the offensive. Shoving her hands in her own pockets, she squared her shoulders and faced him. "Because it was an odd question. What made you think of that?"

He rubbed his head. Flakes of blood fell from his hair. She really should have made him go to hospital.

"Want to know what sort of copper you really are. Just sit at a desk and blather on about motives, or do you get out there in the streets?"

She sensed that wasn't really behind his question, but she let that go. "Both. I save lives, I hope, just in a different sort of way than you spit and fists sort of coppers. I want to avert tragedies by helping police officers do their jobs better. Help us spot behaviours before they turn criminal." She hadn't intended to become so passionate; she had no need to defend her work.

"But no, I've never been shot." She gave a quick nervous smile. "Where's some wood to touch?" She glanced around the room. "All veneer, dammit. Don't think that counts."

He barked a laugh. "Don't worry. The Gene Genie's here. Nothing's going to happen to you now."

The fierceness of his voice made her uncomfortable. She opened the door, grateful for the cooling air in the corridor. "Right. Well, see you tomorrow."

"Night," he said and those mesmerising eyes were the last thing she saw as she closed the door.

The click of the door's latch was loud. Gene shrugged out of his overcoat and suit jacket, then tugged his tie the rest of the way off. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he stretched his arms above his head, still sore from his fall in front of the train. He looked down at his clothes. Damned pouncy banker's togs— With horror, he noticed that he was even wearing red braces. "Bloody hell!" he growled.

He moved to the wall mirror and examined his face. Thinner, tanned. Pretty good trick, considering he hadn't been to Spain since running off after shooting Bolly two years ago. He ruffled his hair. Cropped short all over. Another good trick. He prodded at his scalp, wincing. Blood trickled from his hairline, then slowly it spread, becoming a large gaping wound obscuring his left eye. At the sudden agonizing headache, he passed his hand across his vision and when he looked again, it was this worn-out man's face once more. The visage that he'd chosen to be his adult self; a bit John Wayne, a hint of Clint.

He fumbled in the waistcoat pocket for that thing that Bolly claimed was a phone. He carefully activated the voice memo and looked to the mirror again.

_I am Gene Hunt, and the last thing I remember was lookin' up at an oncoming train in 1985. Now it's 2008 and Bolly hasn't been shot yet."_

It was a young constable's face in the mirror, cocky grin and all. Gene smiled back but his mouth was set grim and determined.

_"No idea how I ended up here, but got a feeling this is my last job. No more handing coppers over to Nelson. Don't know how much time I have left before I'm checked through to my own final destination, but God be damned, I'm going to find a way to save Alex Drake's life." _

End ~ Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

"And when I think that I'm alone."

He tucked the sleeves up of the dark uniform and tugged the tunic into place as neatly as possible. Bridges had been a big but stupid man. Easily fooled into believing his sad tale. A tear in the eye and they all believed.

He glanced around the platform for the one he'd been waiting for to arrive. She'd fall for his sob story too.

"Your son is over here," he'd say. "Don't worry, he's fine."

She'd look confused. "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong person."

He'd look equally as confused and quote her name. She'd nod and confirm her identity. The boy was definitely pointing her out and supplying staff with her name. She'd have to come with him to sort it all out. He'd insist.

She'd look over her shoulder, fretful for but a moment. His smile, the trustworthy uniform, the awaiting child, she'd eventually relax and follow him.

Follow him to her destiny.

"Watching angels celebrating."

* * *

He wouldn't have known her but for the feline gaze.

Gene searched the flat, checking the trappings of his temporary life. He also sought any sign of a certain woman in the DI Alex Drake that he'd encountered today. Where was his Bolly with her tight-jeans wiggle, the deep mystery of her cleavage's valley, and her smirk that he'd had to fight to keep from kissing away?

In the cupboard, he discovered a few airline bottles of booze. With an accepting shrug, he emptied two of the tiny Bushmill's into a tumbler and continued to prowl the tight space.

No, that bird with her prim mouth, narrowed eyes, freckled nose and hair tied back in a messy knot bore little resemblance to the Alex Drake that he'd known. The stuck-up attitude, posh notes and patronising attitude were all too familiar, but her endless raving had been much easier to take when coming from between candy-red lips.

The wardrobe held four more suits, all of the same high quality as the one he wore. The tailoring was too snug for his taste; he preferred the comfortable fit of his suits from the 1980's. The ties were dull solid colors but pure silk. All the braces were red, he noticed with disgust. This lot had cost someone a pretty penny.

He flopped on the settee. His head still hurt. Closing his eyes, it was easy to see her again. When he'd first encountered his new inspector, he hadn't been sure if she was to truly be on his team or a test given to him by the higher ups. The Super had got his knickers in a knot when Sam had managed to linger well past his time. First he'd reassigned Hunt and his lads down to this festering southern cesspool. After that, there'd been a lot of phone calls about being more efficient, not getting too involved...And then she'd appeared, her short skirt flashing him the Full English. Other women had been dangled before him over the years, but she was the first assigned to the CID as a detective. His brain and balls didn't know which way to turn—was she a bird or a bloke?

Even when it was clear that she was there to serve her time, Gene had sensed that temptation was being pushed in his face just like her lovely tits in their red satin bra. If London was the punishment for hanging onto Sam, where'd he be sent if he'd tossed a leg over that? Cornwall after all?

His stomach growled and he remembered Alex saying that the box which she'd pulled from the fridge was something to eat. He checked it. Birds Eye chicken penne; some silly twat's meal but was all there was. The instructions were for a microwave, the apparatus on the worktop. He opened it cautiously. Nothing but a clean white interior; didn't look as though anything could cook in there. He tossed the film-covered dish in, slapped shut the door, and randomly pushed buttons. A light went on and a buzz started. He rolled his eyes. It wasn't more than a heat lamp.

While he waited, he tried to figure out the television; or at least what he decided was a television. It was flat and thin with no tube, but was located across from the settee and bed, and its black screen could have no other purpose. There was no controls on its smooth surface. She'd said something about a remote control... He picked up the object on the coffee table and the buttons illuminated. Nearly dropping it, he decided the green button must do something—the screen burst to life. He took an involuntary step back as the bright colors, rapid movements and thundering sound briefly overwhelmed him.

"Flaming hell," he muttered. It was like being at the cinema.

There was a card on the table with a list of channels. There were at least a dozen. Although he recognized a few, he decided to stay on the one already playing—Sky News. A bomb had gone off in Pakistan, something called an IED had killed soldiers in Afghanistan, the Home Secretary warned of further attacks despite the arrest of Azmat—in a few whirlwind moments, he caught up on current events and it looked like a total fuckup. There was a reason that he usually ignored the news.

A bell dinged.

Gene opened the microwave and a wave of smoke came out. How could anything burn with no heat? He pulled out the dish and immediately dropped it with a: "Christ on a bike!"

It had singed his fingers. The film on top was stuck to the noodles. When he pulled it off, a burst of steam burnt him again. Swearing and growling, he pulled his sleeve down to cover his hand and carried the dish to the coffee table. Opening another bottle of whiskey, he refilled his glass. Dinner was served.

The dish hadn't been a hearty portion to begin with, and he'd lost half of it to burning. He scraped some out of the middle, but it seemed to still be frozen. He'd lost his appetite since Bolly had gone into the Railway Arms. All for the best. That last year, watching Alex slurp up her spaghetti and lap the sauce from her fork every evening had driven Gene batty. He'd taken to stuffing buns into his mouth as he watched, unable to tear his gaze away. His expanding waistline had proven that calories did count in the afterlife. Damn woman.

If the Super had been playing him all along with Alex, dangling a gorgeous tart before his nose—why not just sack him and be done with it? Gene had had a good run, if he'd said so himself. And what was this all about anyway? Why dump him off in the real world, out of his time and place? Wasn't the end for a dead man...death?

After swallowing the last few bites of the globby pasta, he dug out the mobile again. Didn't matter why he'd been brought here. He'd save Alex Drake; it would be his final case. He must remember the clues to her murder. Even if she wasn't his Bolly, her daughter needed her—

Activating the voice memo, he made note of that first. Her daughter; she was always going on about returning to the girl. In fact, she'd mentioned her daughter's birthday several times. _I'm going to my little girl's birthday party. _

For all he knew, this party could be tomorrow or ten months from now. But he'd stay close as a tick until he found out.

She'd been shot...In the head. She'd told Chris and Granger that her first day in CID.

His own damn head kept throbbing. Turning off the memo, he barked an ironic laugh. They'd just been two silly sods wandering through his dream with a couple of holes in their heads. He'd given himself snakeskin boots and a hot red ride, and apparently dressed her like a high-end tom. Despite being alone in the room, he blushed and glanced guiltily to the ceiling. Her only clothes had been skin-tight, her shoes high heeled. This Alex Drake, in her man's suit and clumpy boots, would have none of it.

He hankered for a fag, but could only glare at the no-smoking sticker on the door. It was all for this best that this wasn't_ his_ Alex. Keep him from being distracted by her face and body. He'd stay focused on the case of her murder. And it seemed that the bodies in the rail stations were still turning up. He'd solve that too while he was here.

Flicking the voice memo back on, he posed another question: who had shot Alex? A sudden thought struck him. Was Sam alive in this time? Could Gene possibly save them both? Gulping down the last of the whiskey, he chided himself for his leap of hope.

On the floor above, with Molly fed, bathed and head bent over her homework in her room, Alex could do her own studying. She flipped open her thick file on Sam Tyler and put aside his photograph with its brutal indictment of _Suicide _before starting through the transcripts of the interviews.

DCI Tyler had told her about his delusions, how detailed and encompassing that they'd been. Time and time again, he'd returned to his antagonism with one particular construct, the antithesis of everything he believed about policing. Alex had reached the conclusion that Sam had been working through conflict that he had with his abandoning father, and that process had manifested itself in some brutish figure.

Except for the fact that Gene Hunt appeared to be real. She thumped her palm on the tabletop. She'd been so stupid! Hadn't even occurred to her that Sam's creation would be alive and kicking on the current staff of the Greater Manchester Police. If her book had been published—

With shaking hands, she tightened her ponytail. This years' long study of police behaviour was her chance to step out of the shadow of her parents, the martyred liberal barristers. Only to have had this creature come banging into New Scotland Yard, humiliating her before everyone with her silly error.

She would need to interrogate Gene Hunt carefully without giving away the reason. Her Sam Tyler chapter could still be salvaged. Surely there was enough there to make for compelling reading if she could build a profile of the loutish DCI, counter it to the modern copper that Tyler had been. And the part about wearing flares and a leather jacket while David Bowie sang a soundtrack to their adventures could propel the book from scholarly work to best-sellers list. Not that she sought fame...

She began to make notes to that effect. After an hour of it, her vision was swimming and her head pounding. It had been a long day and she hadn't been sleeping well. Every few years, she was visited by recurring dreams. She'd awake upset and unsettled, the details already lost. But she knew it was about her parents' death. Her therapist believed the dreams were triggered by stress and she'd certainly been feeling that while pursuing the young jihadist.

Although she frowned on self-medication, she allowed herself to have a glass of wine. Half filling a large goblet, she wandered out onto the flagstone patio in the garden. The night was warm. Tired of sitting, she leant against the back of a teak bench and looked up at the sky. Surprisingly, she could see stars. Usually the city's lights was too bright. Perhaps it was later than she thought. She passed her hand over her eyes and took a deep sip of her wine.

"You're up late," came a raspy voice from below her.

Startled, she looked around. A curl of blue smoke rose from the stairs down to the garden bedsit. The husky tone could only be DCI Hunt. It was odd that she hadn't smelt his cigarette before he spoke. Her father had smoked, and Evan as well until she'd nagged him into quitting after living with him a few years. Since then, she'd always been sensitive to the odour.

"You as well."

"I'm a night hawk."

An interesting choice, she thought. Not an owl, but a hawk. She took another sip of her wine and only hummed in response. Her exhaustion came in another wave, making her head light. She shouldn't drink anymore. The glass moved back to her lips...

Gene craned his neck to get a better look at her. She wore some snug top with a low scooped neckline, and a pair of tight trousers that came to just below her knees. A pair of plastic slip on shoes were on her bare feet. Although hardly one of Bollinger Knickers' slutty outfits, at least he could finally see that this version of Alex Drake still had a fine set of tits and a peachy arse.

As though she could read his mind, she tugged at the shirt, but that only pulled it tighter across her breasts. He smiled.

She stated the obvious to just keep talking: "Having a smoke?"

He took another drag off his cigarette but shook his head. "Stargazing," he said.

"Usually pointless in London."

"They're out tonight," he said.

"I just was thinking the same thing," she said, speaking low. He wanted to move beside her so he could hear everything that she had to say. He missed her with a sudden rush of pain and she was standing just a few metres away.

He took another puff and exhaled in a deep sigh.

"Mind you, they're just bright for London," she found herself babbling. "Not like when you're out in the country."

He gave a snort. "Oh yes, when visiting the Rhys-Jones' manor in Devon for the weekend?"

Confused, she protested, "Not at all." Self-conscious, her hand went to her untidy hair. "I went to in Tunisia once, on holiday—"

He laughed again, a short bark.

"Not like that," she insisted. Not knowing why she felt as though she had to explain, she went on nonetheless. "One of those silly things that girlfriends talk you into, a package tour for a long weekend—quite awful actually..." She faltered.

There was the flash of his teeth in the dark, in what she took to be his smile. She smiled back. "I managed to get away one night; they had tours into the desert. And the stars...They seemed so close, it was as though they were tangled in my hair."

"While your mates were knocking down Fluffy Ducks and getting poked by the tennis pro behind the palm trees, you were off in the sand with some camel jockey, touching the stars?"

Gulping the last of her wine, she turned away. Really, she had no idea why she was even talking to this troll lurking under his bridge.

"Not much for strolls in the countryside myself," he said.

She made a noncommittal noise and eased towards her door.

He cleared his throat, causing her to stop. "I was in Africa...The Sinai, guess that sorta counts. I saw the stars, the same as you. My scalp was shaved though, so none got tangled in me hair." He scrubbed his head. "I'd forgotten all about it until this moment," he said, wonder in his tone.

"The Sinai Peninsula? Hardly a holiday spot."

"Not on holiday. There for my National Service."

"National Service? You aren't old enough to have been conscripted," she said with a laugh.

"Oh, that's just what me mates and I called it," he said quickly. "If we got out of the estate, it was in a paddy wagon or the Army. It was like being conscripted."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She remembered that Sam had told her that Gene Hunt had had a rough upbringing.

"Nah. Did right by me," he said gruffly. "Good start. Showed me that I liked carrying around a gun. Better to be a copper than a blagger."

"Studies have shown that criminals and police officers' brains share similar neural pathways," she said dryly. "We're not so far apart as you would think."

He gazed up at her again. She seemed pretty far away from him now. His shoulders drooping, he grubbed his cigarette under his heel and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

Alex looked down on Hunt's bowed head. From Sam's description, she expected him to be constantly bombastic, barking his unwanted opinions at her. Well, he had done that a bit, but these brooding silences were unsettling.

"I suppose I should get to bed," she finally said. "No rest for the wicked. Back to the case tomorrow."

"Gotta catch that murdering bastard," he growled and she smiled to herself. There was the Gene Hunt she was expecting.

"You'll want the 7:16 train," she told him and he frowned. Then she heard herself saying, "I suppose you can have a lift with me. But you'll have to be ready at seven. I take my daughter to school before going onto the Yard."

He gave her one of those quick smiles. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "I'll be out front on the dot."

"Good night then," she said, heading in.

Only when he heard Alex close and latch the door did Gene retire as well. He stripped down to his shorts. After flipping the bed down from the wall, he lay on it with his fingers laced behind his head. Despite everything, he wasn't tired. Part of him wondered if he'd wake at all, or be back in 1984.

At least he'd seen Alex again. He smiled in the dark. The curve of her hip as she leant against the bench's back, her long legs stretched out before her. The plumpness of her lower lip as she'd rested the wineglass on it, her tongue playing with the rim. The pale glow of her neck as her head tilted back to look at the sky. And the stars caught in her hair.

Sleep did come.

_The slope rose before her. The balloon bounced ahead, just out of reach, rising toward the blue sky. An explosion_—_knocking her down. Great heat and a horrible crumbling sound, as though a large tin can was being crushed beneath a heel. The sky was red and yellow and black, hurting her eyes. Her hand was grabbed, pulling her up._

_Evan was there, as always. His long fingers around her small ones. The dark sleeve of his overcoat. Only this time, he lifted her, nestling her to his chest. She was safe. _

_She looked up to his face but couldn't see his features against the bright sky. He began to carry her away from the heat and smoke. The beat of his heart was steady under her ear. She tilted her face up again._

_It wasn't her godfather. It was a young man, his blond hair hanging over his brow as he looked down at her. He gave her a crooked smile, and then his face dissolved into blackness, a dark night sky. _

Alex woke with a gasp as though breaking the water's surface from a deep dive. Flopping back on the pillow, she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyelids, frustrated that the dream had slipped away before she could recall the specifics, only left with a sense of fear and loss.

All she could remember was a pair of silver eyes, right before they became bright stars.

end ~ Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_Pardon the delay. We'll do better with next chapter, I swear! 'tis that time of year though._

* * *

Skin as white as custard cream, pale gazes staring into another world; not for this one anymore. Hair like gold candyfloss, clinging to cold cheeks. One girl's locks were red as spilling blood, winding around her neck.

Just one thing.

He peered closer to the fabric spread out neatly around the body of victim number three. There was a series of cuts in the bodice of her dress. There'd only been rips and bloodstains on the clothes of the other two lasses they'd found; torn off them and tossed aside as carelessly as their lives. But this one's weren't cut in a frenzy, and they were placed in such a meticulous manner that it had to be deliberate.

Their murdering piece of scum was getting more methodical. He had a real taste for it now…

Fingers laced behind his neck, he leant back in his creaky chair and stared up at the ceiling. The new pattern overhead was navy and red.

The same deep red shade which adorned Bolly's lips that night at Luigi's, when she'd pouted them into the most beautiful words he'd ever heard.

The language of love slips from my lover's tongue, cooler than ice cream and warmer than the sun.

Words so vulgar yet so lovely which haunted him in his dreams as well as his nightmares.

The dark navy was to match the ill-fitting blouse which kept slipping off her shoulders that night, giving him glimpses of her perfect pale skin.

Tell me, tell me.

* * *

"Now, Molly!" Alex yelled down the hall to her daughter's room. "We have a passenger today and we're late!"

Another night of disturbing dreams, waking early to lie abed and toss around more theories about Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt, only to have them jumble together with the murderer that they'd dubbed the Angel Killer as she slipped back to sleep. Still blurry-eyed, she'd smeared mascara on her left eyelid and had had to clean up and start over, and for some reason had felt the need to fuss with her hair, which hadn't worked out at all. She'd scraped it back in a ponytail, but now they were officially behind schedule.

And Molly was taking her dear sweet time as well.

"Molls!" she barked, fumbling to shove her Sam Tyler notes in her leather valise and then search for her car keys in the outer pockets. Damn, where'd she put them...

Her daughter came flouncing from her room, her schoolbook satchel swinging from her shoulder and breezed past Alex as though it was her mother who were late and not she.

Alex hurried after her. "I'm giving a ride to DCI Hunt who's here to help with a case. You are to be polite and not ask a lot of questions—"

Molly flipped her hair behind her shoulders. "I don't have any idea what you mean," she said.

Locking the flat's door behind them, Alex only pursed her mouth in reply as they clattered down the building interior stairs together. Her daughter's inquisitive nature was the revenge of Alex's own endless and inappropriate questions as a child.

"Just behave," Alex said as they went through the front entry door. She paused to lock up but caught sight of her visitor.

Gene Hunt lounged against her car, smoking a cigarette. His dark overcoat shrouded his tall form. His head was lowered to take another drag from his smoke, and she could see that his fair hair was still damp and combed over flat against his scalp like a grammar school boy. For some reason, this sight made her stomach tilt slightly.

She nearly stumbled off the stoop and Molly looked back at her questioningly.

Much to her chagrin, Hunt flipped away his cigarette and glanced at his watch.

"I know, I know," she grumbled. Any professionalism or distant friendliness that she may have planned was gone, replaced by sullenness.

"This is Molly, my daughter," she said, deactivating the car alarm. "Molly, this is Mr. Hunt." Might as well keep things formal.

"You can call me Gov," he said to Molly. He was giving her daughter that same intense stare that he'd given her the day before. Perhaps that's the way he was with all new people.

The girl pressed her lips together in that way that Alex knew meant she was suppressing a giggle. She hadn't spent much time around men other than her godfather, and in a way, he didn't really count as a _man_. Her eyes sparkled with interest as she looked the tall stranger up and down.

He opened the back door for Molly. "'op in, little lady," he said.

Alex had to grab the auto's bonnet for support. The words_ little lady_ echoed in her head. In a sudden, blinding flash, she remembered that Evan had called her that on the day of her parents' death; he'd never called her that before or since, thus those words hung in her heart as something precious. Her dream last night—on the knoll; the heat of the flames—

Molly scrambled into the rear seat with little grace, dragging her bag behind her, but Gene closed the door with as much dignity as locking in the Queen. He noticed Alex still leant on the car, her gaze fixed in the distance.

"Light yah knickers, Drake," he snapped. "We're late."

"Yes," she muttered, blushing, "right."

He settled into the passenger seat and pressed his right foot down hard on the floorboard. She chose to ignore that and started up. The dinging alarm pointed out that he hadn't fastened his seatbelt. With a dramatic sigh, he pulled it across his chest. At least this time she didn't have to nag.

A giggle from the backseat made Alex give a warning glare into the rearview mirror.

Hunt didn't seem offended. He turned in the seat to look at Molly. Now Alex gave her a pointed look in the mirror. The girl put on her most innocent expression.

"When you said that you had a daughter, I thought you meant a little girl. Not a young lady," he said to Alex.

Of course, Molly preened. Alex set her shoulders. She'd heard it all before. The surprise, the mental calculations, then the judgment. Yes, she'd been just out of university. Yes, it had been a stupid, stupid mistake, taken on Peter's childhood mattress—shagging your English tutor as a way to celebrate your degree! Evan's disappointment, the hurried marriage, only to see it fall apart a year later when Peter couldn't manage paternity and fidelity, let alone both at the same time. All this was seen by a bit of subtraction.

Hunt gave one of his quick smiles. "No way you're the mother of a teenager—"

She harrumphed. "I'm not. Not for another month at least."

"Deny all you want," crowed Molly. "It's coming; the big one-three." She lolled her head to gaze out the window dreamily. "Mummy can't face it, but it'll be glorious to no longer be a child—"

"Don't get too far ahead of yourself," protested Alex. "I'll concede to you being a teenager—" She gave a shudder. "—and that's it."

"You've got a birthday coming up?" Gene asked Molly.

"Yep," she replied happily.

"Well, don't be in such a hurry to grow up," he said. "You'll never get these days back."

Another warning shot from Alex to Molly in the mirror to silence the girl.

"Bloody 'ell," groused Gene. "This traffic." He shifted impatiently in his seat.

Alex stole her glance his way. He seemed to fill the compact interior, his head brushing the ceiling and his shoulder nearly touching hers. Her leather case was wedged between them, gaping open from the pressure. She checked Molly. The girl was watching Gene as she would some unfamiliar creature in the zoo.

Sure enough, Molly spoke: "Mr. Hunt—"

"I tol' you, call me Guv," he said comfortably.

Whatever her daughter was going to ask was replaced by a new query. "So if you're a Guv, is my mum a Guv too?"

The corner of his mouth twitched and he cast his gaze over his shoulder. "Nah, yer mum is the Boss, got that? Detective Inspectors are Bosses; Detective Chief Inspectors are Guvs."

"I prefer to be called DI Drake," Alex said and realised that she sounded like an utter prig. She didn't like the amused looks exchanged by her daughter and visiting DCI. Going to be the odd fellow out if she wasn't careful. Amazing how quickly she returned to that role of the lonely orphan who didn't fit in with the other children.

"She's the boss all right," groaned Molly, taking the punchline that was given to her.

"Too right," said Gene approvingly. "A girl should listen to her mum."

The girl would not be cowed. "If she was around more often, she could keep a better eye on me."

Alex didn't even bother to give her a quelling look in the mirror. This was a familiar argument; the tug-of-war between her guilt, ambition and sense of duty.

She pulled up before Molly's school. "Go on, then," she said, already thinking ahead to the case and seeing what Gene Hunt knew. He didn't seem the sort who would have a great mind for details, let alone retaining them for decades, but one never knew—

"Mum!" Molly, banging on her window, had been trying to get her attention.

She lowered the window. "What is it?"

"Tara's mum needs to speak to you about the sleepover next weekend."

With a quick apology to Gene, Alex scrambled from the car and hurried across the carpark to a knot of mothers and uniformed girls.

Even cloaked by the frumpy loose blazer's hem, Gene managed to spot the familiar swing of Alex's hips. Then his gaze caught the name on the folder protruding from leather valise stuck between the two front seats.

_Sam Tyler_

He checked Alex again. She was obviously trapped by the other mothers. He pulled the folder out and flipped it open, scanning pages as quickly as he could.

"Aw, Sam, you drippy Dorothy," he muttered. "Couldn't keep your flamin' mouth shut, could you?"

There it all was; Sam's time in Gene's CID. In much too vivid detail. He shot another quick look at Alex; she was still talking. And wasn't she the sly one? Claiming that Sam had been her friend. But from the look of it, she was doing her therapy jiggery-pokery on Sam. And he'd thought it was his natural animal magnetism that had caused Alex to look gobsmacked at meeting him. But at least that time, he had belonged in 1982. Alex being Alex, she'd want an answer as to how a sick man's delusions came to be standing before her in 2008, but not a minute older than when Sam had known him. He needed an explanation, and fast.

Swearing under his breath, he shoved all the papers back into the folder and the folder into the valise as Alex strode back to the car, fretfully checking her watch.

"We're late," he said unnecessarily when she was back in the driver's seat.

Peevishly, she was contrary. 'I'm the Boss, remember? I say when the workday starts. We have time to nip into a cafe."

Gene's stomach growled. He could do with a bacon butty and a cuppa. "Sounds good."

But after leaving her auto in the New Scotland Yard car park, Alex led him to some pouncy place with a French name and a chalkboard menu covering the entire wall. He pulled up short. Alex was at the counter. "I'll have a large skinny dry cap, extra shot." She glanced over her shoulder. "What for you, Hunt? I'll have this round."

He was still staring at the menu. Finally he found speech. "Tea. Five sugars."

The girl wiggled the ring in her lip with her tongue and rattled through types: "Herbal? Black? Green?"

Gene looked down his nose at her, trying to keep his cool. "Eh?" was all he managed.

"Oolong? Passion flower? Chai?"

He tried saying it louder: "Eh?!"

Alex had been checking the selection in the pastry display, talking herself out of a bran muffin and into a pain au chocolat. His belligerence caught her attention. She quickly assessed the situation. "You don't happen to have any Red Rose, do you?" she asked with a pained smile.

The girl looked down _her_ own pierced nose. "Y're jokin'," she said.

"Could you please check," wheedled Alex. She drew Gene to the case and talked to him like a doddering auntie on her day out. "How about something to eat too?" she suggested.

His lips drew in a hard pout, showing her that she was not fooling him one bit, but he nodded at her selection of an egg and croissant sandwich for him.

The girl had returned. "I've found a dusty old box at the back," she announced. "I think it's the cleaning woman's."

Alex chose to ignore her attitude. "Right. Get more in stock, will you? We're just across the street at the Yard and are regulars," she added pointedly as she swiped her card.

"Of course," the girl gushed, suddenly all solicitous. She pushed the paper cup to Gene and he nosed it as suspiciously as a bomb-sniffing dog before taking a deep gulp. His high class butty was eaten in four great bites, washed down with his tea. He'd tossed the cup and wrapper into a bin before they'd crossed the street. Alex nibbled on the corner of her pastry and took a delicate sip through her cup's lid opening.

In the Yard's foyer, she steered him towards the reception desk. "Wanda, DCI Hunt will need to be issued a guest badge," said Alex. She could feel Gene's outrage even before she looked at him.

"I don't need a bloody badge," he protested. "I'm Gene Hunt. That's all anyone needs to know!"

She tugged her lanyard free from under her coat. "I wear one. Everyone wears one. It'll be your only access through the secured entry doors."

Wanda ignored his tantrum and went to her camera set up behind the counter. "This way, sir," she said with her soft country burr. "I'll be gentle with you." She gave Alex an exaggerated wink.

For some reason, Alex felt her hackles go up at the woman's joke. Perhaps it was the way Wanda was giving Gene the once over, and straightening his tie for him before stepping behind the camera.

If Alex had been in the desk clerk's place, she would have smoothed his hair too. With the aggravation in the cafe, he'd run his fingers through his cropped 'do a great deal and now it stuck out in all directions, reminding her of a petulant baby after a tantrum. Which had just about been it. She'd have to stop at the shop to get a tin of Red Rose—

She pulled herself up short. If he wanted some bloody granny's tea, he could get it himself.

"Ready?" she called out snippily, interrupting Wanda as she was making a great fuss of adjusting the length of the lanyard around Gene's neck. The seasoned clerk gave Alex a frank look and stepped back.

"This way," Alex told Gene, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him off. She made a great show of waving her pass to unlock the door at each security entrance and raising her eyebrows at Gene. He didn't appear to notice; he was looking around the building as they traversed to the fifth floor where Alex's office was located and the incident room that had been set up to track the serial killings.

She found her group scattered around the room, sipping their morning coffee and chatting. As she'd been gone several days on the Azmat case, they'd been on their own, rudderless. She would hope that they'd be more self-directed, but wasn't surprised. She heard a snort of derision from the man beside her as he took in the scene as well and she flushed.

"Right then," she called out. "Good morning, everyone." She set down her own paper and clapped. "Gather 'round please."

Her team assembled before her, eager as ever now that she had returned. Gene leant against a desk and folded his arms.

"Great news. DCI Gene Hunt—" She motioned to him. "—has come down from Manchester to assist on this case. He was working in London in the 1980's when it appears that our killer had started his crimes."

That instantly got the group's interest, she noticed with satisfaction.

"DCI Hunt, let me introduce you to the team. DS Welton, you've met..." She faltered a bit. Robbie, who'd smiled a greeting, recalled his last encounter with Hunt as well, and put a grave expression on his face and nodded.

"DS Donna Jones," Alex said, and instantly felt a different sort of tension. Donna was just on the right side of forty and had worked her way up from WPC to detective. No accelerated promotions out of Oxbridge for her. Yet she and Alex got along well and had mutual respect. But Donna was much more Gene Hunt's type of copper, and in their visiting detective, the curvaceous blonde obviously saw her sort of bloke.

"Charmed," she drawled, shaking his hand, letting her touch linger a bit too long and standing a step too close. Gene raised his eyebrows but didn't seem to respond to the unspoken invitation.

After a long sigh, Alex continued, "Dave Ritchie, our forensics expert." Dave wasn't much for human contact, and remained at the back of the group, only nodding a greeting to Hunt. She thought he may get on well with Gene since he was closer to the visitor's age, and although he treated Alex with respect, she sensed he held many old attitudes towards policing despite his scientific background. Lean and sallow-skinned, she always thought of Ritchie as a thin leather-bound novel of terse prose, that sort of thing that was intellectually exhausting but one felt that one must read anyway.

"And DC Tabitha James—" Alex said, but her introduction was cut off by Tabitha bouncing forwards to shake Gene's hand.

"Thank you ever so much for coming!" she gushed at him. Alex held her breath. She assumed that Hunt would have the usual outlook toward blacks in the police force as other men of his generation, and probably had a thought or two about enthusiastic female DC's as well.

But Hunt only said, "The pleasure's all mine, luv," with a gentle smile that disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

Feeling that they needed to start work, Alex rapidly introduced the rest of the team and then led Gene to the wall boards set up with their evidence so far.

"We've identified twelve victims going back until 1998 but we believe there's more. He's been too prolific and successful for too long," Alex explained grimly. "Dave's been combing through records of murders, looking for our M.O."

"That's how I found your victim," piped up Dave with a smug smile.

Gene noticed Tabitha's lips twitching in consternation.

"Which one?" he asked.

Dave said: "Kath Bright, aged nineteen—"

Gene nodded. "Redhead. That leaves Carol Jackson and Lola Burns. Two more young toms, both blondes."

When Alex flinched at his use of the derogatory term, Gene knew what was wrong. "Pardon. Sex workers."

Tabitha darted to her computer. "I'll check records for those names."

Walking slowing along the boards, Gene looked closely at the photographs of the victims. "Always figured it was a freak with a thing for prossies. But you've got boys, an old man and woman—"

He fumbled in his pocket for his fags but when he brought one to his lips, Alex cleared her throat. That's when he realised something had been missing from the room; the sweet smell of stale cigarette smoke.

She started to nag, "There's no smoking—" but he had them put away before she could finish.

"Forgot," he said shortly.

Satisfied, Alex began to run through the victims for him, pointing out the relevant points that linked the killings.

"The victims have been found near tube or railway stations, but all over London; no particular district has been targeted. Although the victims have come from all walks of life, they share a physical similarity. All are white, and were either frail or small in stature." Her business-like tone faltered. "All the bodies were mutilated in the same way. The skin of their back and shoulders were cut and peeled loose, then laid out to resemble wings."

"That's why we call him the Angel Killer," said Donna.

"Although he could be have another intent," pointed out Alex. "Birds, or it could be something other than wings." She addressed the group. "We cannot allow ourselves to be driven by a single theory—"

"'xactly," said Gene. "My victims weren't any angels, I'll tell you that."

Alex tapped the old black and white mugshot for Katherine Bright. "She fits the physical profile though. Only weighed eighty-five pounds, very pale skin, light blue eyes." On the crime scene photograph, she traced the victim's tattered clothing with her fingertip. "It appears that her dress was cut and laid out in the same pattern as the skin of the current victims."

"He's evolved," drawled Dave.

Gene reviewed the collection of evidence, taking it all in. "Evolved...I found the first victim in 1984. The crimes are well planned and executed, otherwise I would have caught the scumbag. Those murders don't have the look of some young bloke, bumping off a prossie who didn't finish his five knuckle shuffle. So say he's in his thirties. It's now 2008, twenty-five years on. Do you see some pensioner stalking and offing victims?" He turned to face Alex. "Is this the crime of an old man?"

He pronounced: "You've got two killers here."

She folded her arms and started to protest. Her profile was for a white male, thirty to forty years old, educated, precise in his habits, physically strong—all the victims had been found in remote locations which would require being carried distances.

A copycat killer...But the Met hadn't publicised the connection between all the killings yet. How could someone know about them to copy them?

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

Gene watched her think—he'd missed seeing the gears whir in her mind, the light glimmering in her golden gaze. And he'd missed enjoying the frustration knot up her lush mouth.

He smirked. She turned her back.

Tabitha called out, "DCI Hunt, I have your victims."

He joined the constable. "What you got?" Leaning on her desk, he squinted at huge, flat screen of her computer. Pictures of Carol and Lola were side by side. With their long blonde hair and thin faces, they could have been sisters.

"You're right, Mr. Hunt," Tabitha said excitedly. "I'll compile their files and add them to the board." She was making clicking noises with a small round object under her right hand and the images quickly changed again and again.

"You got Pong on this thing?" he asked, his head dizzy at the flurry of pictures and words.

She tilted her head. "What's pong?"

"Let's take a break, everyone," said Alex, already lost in thought about her profile. She needed to assimilate this new information...

Donna sauntered over to Tabitha's desk. "Care for a fag?" she suggested to Gene.

He was dying for one, Alex's glare and reproach when he'd tried to light up still smarting. "Damn straight."

"No need to go all the way out to the street," she assured him, "I know the secret spot."

He had no idea what she was on about, but trailled after her down a corridor. After going up a set of service stairs, she opened an exterior door with the card hanging around her neck and led him out onto the roof. Her back to the wind, she lit her cigarette before he could offer. He raised his eyebrows. Another woman libber, apparently.

He lit his own, inhaling deeply and with great relief. Looking out across the skyline, he was amazed by the clean air and number of new structures, dominated by a massive ferris wheel on the Thames. Bloody hell, what had happened to old London Town? Turned into a carnival?

And Alex, of course. So different...And yet the same. In the car this morning, he'd been surrounded by her smell. How could a woman smell the same in the afterlife as she did in the real world? Just one more way that the Super had tried to entrap him...After decades of women spun from his imagination, this one had appeared, with real body heat, a real odour, a real glow to her skin—

He inhaled savagely on his fag. Back to his objective while in the real world. He had time, it seemed; at least a couple of weeks. But he wanted to find out Molly's actual birthdate—

Donna stepped close and blew her smoke in his face. "Don't worry about DI Drake. She knows her stuff."

"I know she does."

"Alright. I just noticed you watching her pretty close. Seemed doubtful."

"I'm not," he said shortly, and sucked in more smoke.

Donna changed topics. "No need to be all work and no play while you're in the Big Smoke." She shifted closer, her intent obvious.

He blinked. This woman smelt real too. Like the cosmetics counter at Boots, old fags and gun oil. Heady combination. He blinked again, slow.

She gave him a sideways smile and toyed with her identity card, which happened to hang right at the top button of her blouse.

She may be real, but he wasn't. There in lay the problem. She wasn't one of his imaginary prossies or slappers from the end of the bar, always willing and enthusiastic. He couldn't risk making a bloody fool of himself when he was here to get a job done.

He tossed his butt down. "Guess we should get back. See if that Tabby girl found out more about my victims."

Donna's mouth formed a disappointed moue, but she ground out her cigarette under her heel. "Right," she said brightly.

Gene had paid attention as to their route and led the way back to the incident room with his long strides, his mind already back on the case. These murders kept him close to Alex, which served his fundamental purpose. And if he could find this killer and put a stop to him, all the better. A single case wrapped up in two worlds.

An older man cut him off at the incident room doorway with just a mumbled, "Excuse me."

Over the rude wanker's shoulder, Gene saw Alex look up and smile warmly. He allowed himself to return it, but it wasn't for him.

"Evan, darling," she said, holding her arms open. "What are you doing here?"

Gene crashed to a halt, causing Donna to run into his back. "What's up?" she asked, but he didn't reply, staring at Alex and...Evan White hugging.

_It's complicated. _

Chapter four ~end


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the delay! Aussie's on holiday with the family (so hard to fangirl with the kiddies around) and that left me to type and type and type...Look at it this way. You get three chapters worth in one post!_

* * *

Scream long and loud no one hears, the wail of brakes on the tracks, the single note a stream of heat from his heart, his lungs, his dick. To fly on light feathers, bright as the sun in the dark.

She doesn't understand yet, but she'll be with the angels soon, as the heat bleeds out...streams of red, yellow urine, black shit. And tears-

I'm never gonna cry again I'm never gonna die again I'll shed some tears for you I'll shed more tears for you than the ocean, the ocean.

"Finish up, you tosser. We must fly."

The train is coming can't be late mustn't be late or they'll know something's up. The schedule must be followed.

* * *

Alex held her godfather close, feeling that familiar security in his arms. A quick movement over his shoulder caught her attention though. Gene Hunt was awkwardly shuffling sideways towards Tabitha's desk. The young constable looked up questioningly as he tugged her arm and pulled her with him to the far side of the room.

"What's wrong, Alex?" Evan asked.

"Nothing," she said with a shake of her head. "I just saw something odd."

Evan glanced around but Hunt was hunched over a computer terminal with Tabitha. Alex could see that he was firing instructions at the young woman. He better not consider that the constable was his personal assistant during the secondment, she thought.

"I'm meeting a client at the Four Feathers—" Evan was saying.

Dragging her attention back to her godfather, she gave him a smile. "It's a bit early for drinks—"

"I had some paperwork for you to sign so I thought I'd drop in here first," he said, opening his briefcase. "I need to revise some of the investments in the trust."

"Of course," she said automatically, even as she felt Hunt's gaze boring into her back whilst she walked Evan into her office, her hand on his arm.

"DCI Hunt, is this the man that you're looking for?" Tabitha asked.

Gene checked the monitor. "Arthur Layton. That's him." He took a deep breath to clear his head, amazed that all the players were appearing on the chessboard. He scanned the record. "What nick is he in?"

She clicked the mouse a few more times. "He's been released on licence," she said and when Gene's hand smacked down on the desk, jumped in her chair.

"Bastard!" growled Gene. "When?"

"Three days ago."

He rubbed his head, fighting back the stabbing pain. Too many memories for a man who had always wanted to forget. Evan White, a pouncy twat sniffing around Alex whilst shagging his boss's missus...Little Alex Price...sexy Alex Drake...a woman and a child screaming as two bodies burned in a car...the light weight of a small girl in his arms, her shattered breathing against his neck...The last time that he saw her, walking away with Evan White's hand on her shoulder.

_"I'm all she's got. And I love her. So will you help me to get custody?"_

The nasty pervert hugging the grownup Alex, his pale, soft hands spread across her back.

Alex Price should never know what her father did...What her mother did...What her godfather did...

Why had he smashed that damned tape?

Alex Drake, insisting that some barrow boy was a big time drug dealer who also could make bombs. Tim Price, assuring that Layton was released in time to wire his own car. Evan White showing up just as the explosion went off...

Alex, her face twisted in fear and hate as she stared at Layton's death mask through the prison's visiting room glass...

"DCI Hunt, are you alright? How about some tea?" Tabitha's voice sounded far off.

He blinked, returning to the present. "Do we have an address for Layton?"

"Yes, sir," she said, unsure. She clicked more times. "It'll be on the printer." She nodded towards a small white box on a far table which was making a low purr.

Putting one foot before the other, he managed to walk there. Heat and flames seemed to sear at his skin and he had to clutch the table to keep from falling.

"Gene, is something wrong?" These words were close, intimate.

He turned his head slowly; its weight nearly unbearable. "Fine," he mumbled.

"I think you should sit down," Alex said bossily but her face was concerned.

"Gotta get this." He snagged the paper off the machine before she could see it.

"Have you got something for our case?"

He shoved the paper in his pocket. "What're you doing with White?" he asked sharply, not caring that he sounded barking mad.

She furrowed her brow. "Do you know my godfather?"

"Solicitor," Gene said thickly. His tongue seemed to have swollen.

"He hasn't practised law in years—but wait... You would have known him from cases at Fenchurch East," she said with dawning understanding. She looked at him hungrily. Someone who may have met her parents; a link to her past. "Do you remember Caroline and Tim Price too?"

"Yes."

His short reply made her take a step back. "Of course," she said, "I doubt that you would have thought fondly of them." Her pretty mouth curled.

"It was complicated," he said, his own smile just as humourless.

"Alex, I should be going," said Evan. He'd approached without Gene being aware.

Gene stood tall, waiting.

"Evan, this is DCI Hunt. He's here from Manchester to help on a case," Alex said. She could feel tension roiling off of Gene.

"How do you do." Evan extended his hand.

After a hesitation, Gene took it.

"I was just asking if Hunt knew my parents," Alex said, a challenge in her tone. "He was a constable at Fenchurch East when you and they would have been butting heads with the police on a regular basis."

Smiling blandly, Evan nodded. "Those were some difficult times."

He sounds like a bloody pollie, Gene thought. Probably was, with his pin-striped suit and his greying beard. But he appeared not to be remembering Gene. But then again, how could he? The little shit obviously wasn't dead yet.

His harsh chuff of laughter startled Evan and Alex. Gene covered with, "Yes, those were the days." He glanced to Tabitha. "You're with me," he ordered.

The young constable scurried to grab her coat, her face lit with excitement.

"Have you got something?" asked Alex.

"I prefer not to share my leads until they pan out." Gene shrugged on his overcoat, the swish of dark wool effectively dismissing her as he walked away.

"Hey, wait a minute," she called after him. "I'm in charge of this case—"

"And I'm a DCI," he tossed over his shoulder.

He crashed out the doors, leaving the incident room with Tabitha in tow before Alex could protest. The rest of the squad watched her surreptitiously.

"Well, phone me as soon as you have something," she called out but he was long gone.

Evan's mobile rang. He fished it from his pocket and his face went pale when he read the number.

"Would you like my office to take that?" Alex asked, concerned.

He only shook his head and silenced the ring. "It's not important," he said with a forced smile. "I better be going myself." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "Do you need me to take Molly this evening?"

"No, I will be home by five," she promised, even as she remembered that she needed to review her entire profile again.

oOo

Gene hunkered in the passenger seat of the car that DC James had checked out for them. He'd tried to talk her into letting him drive, but she'd insisted that as senior officer, he should ride. He'd considered ordering her to give him the keys but he knew that he had to avoid trouble—at least until he could find this murdering bastard Layton and pinch his head off.

"Was Arthur Layton a suspect in the original killings?" Tabitha asked after turning at a light.

He started to deny it then changed his mind. "He was a person of interest," Gene said cagily. He'd heard that phrase on the telly. He liked the sound of it.

"I saw that you were the arresting officer for his final drugs charge."

Gene cursed under his breath. He needed to learn how to use one of those computers himself. He couldn't be sure what it was saying about him. But surely James would have noticed if his title was DCI on the original report and questioned him.

A disembodied voice suddenly said, "Turn left on Mardyke Street."

He glanced into the back, but no one else was in the vehicle.

As she waited for the light to change before turning, Tabitha giggled. "It's the GPS."

"What branch is that?" he asked, confused.

She tapped a small screen on the dashboard. It showed a map with a moving dot along the street. He could read the street names and realised they were being tracked somehow.

"Best way to get around," she promised him. "Don't the cars in Manchester come with it?"

"Mine didn't," he said honestly.

"It says the address is up here in the right," she told him.

"Shit, drive past then," he demanded. These pranny coppers would let some talking computer take them right into a trap!

"Yes, sir," she said, although she sounded unsure. Gene slumped down in the seat as they drove by the shadowed doorway marked with 906 in chipped paint. If Layton spotted him—

"There, go left and park," he commanded.

Tabitha put on her signal and carefully turned down the street. She slowly drove, looking at the street signs.

"Yah just passed a spot!" roared Gene.

"It was handicapped access kerb, sir."

"Bloody well stop this car," he barked. "You're the flaming police; you can park wherever you want."

"But what if someone differently-abled came along—"

"Stop!"

She hit the brakes and he was out before the car was fully stopped, his coat billowing.

He slunk to the corner and peered around. The door was still closed, but he couldn't be sure where flat A was.

"Sir!" Tabitha whispered urgently behind him.

"Wot."

"Should I cover the back?"

He didn't even look at her. "Not sure where his flat is."

"It's the unit on the front; over the betting shop," she said.

"'ow do you know?" he asked but before she could reply, he realised: "That bloody computer tol' you."

Her grin back was bright but he only gave her a harrumph of approval.

No light was on in the uncurtained windows, nor was there any movement in the flat. Ignoring the quivering constable beside him, he watching for twenty minutes, smoking a couple fags. He missed his flask; he'd need to replace it.

"Sir?"

"Wot."

"I just want to thank you for taking me out with you—"

"No problem."

"I haven't actually been out solo—"

"Y're not solo. Y're following my orders."

"Yes, sir."

Tossing down his last smoke, he announced, "Right then."

Tabitha was immediately alert. "The back—"

"He's not gonna get a chance to run." Gene stormed across the street, not bothering to check for traffic. His shoulder knocked open the outer door and he was up the stairs with the young constable in his wake, hissing, "Sir!" with increased urgency.

Flat A was the first on the left. He didn't have his cowboy boots and he'd somehow lost two stone whilst rolling off a train platform, but Gene wasn't going to let that slow him down. He kicked the door in with a satisfying crack.

"Sir!"

He was a man with a mission; no gabbing plod was going to stop him. He strode from room to room, searching for his target. Tossing over the couch and bed, he became increasingly furious as there was no sign of the scrote. He tore down the mouldy shower curtain, but nothing.

"Bastard!" he growled, standing akimbo in the middle of the dingy lounge, hands on his hips.

Tabitha had stayed in the doorway, wringing her hands. "DCI Hunt, we don't have a warrant."

"Don't need any damn warrant. He's a felon." Gene kept looking around. There was no disarray; Layton hadn't made a panicked scamper. There wasn't even a scrap of paper anywhere. Just a few empty bean tins in the bin. Even the bed had been made before Gene flipped over the mattress.

"This spiv's been gone for a day at least," he said. "We need to talk to his probation officer. This whole thing stinks."

"I should speak to the landlord about the broken door," said Tabitha fretfully. "The Met will reimburse him for the repairs—"

"He can suck my left nut," growled Gene. "Let's go."

oOo

With the sparse records for the victims that Hunt had brought to their attention on her computer monitor, Alex was working on her profile for the Angel Killer. She'd pushed away her anger at that particular DCI and was focusing solely on her task at hand.

The big bastard was right. These dead women were the classic victims of a conventional serial killer—if there was such a thing. All were prostitutes and found in a similar location. Kath Bright's body had been discovered in a remote end of Angel Station northbound tube platform by the first commuters. Carol Jackson's body had been laid out in the ladies' washroom of Whitechapel. Lola Burns had been killed just eight days afterwards, her remains dumped in an underground tunnel to the Bank station.

The current victims had been murdered with meticulous planning. There were no signs of a struggle and a methodical presentation to the bodies, despite the gore of their mutilation. And worst of all, not a single scrap of DNA had been recovered at any of the scenes.

Hunt's victims were tantalisingly messy. From just the crime scene photos, Alex could tell there would have been wonderful DNA to be gathered. All three women had broken fingernails. Their dishevelled clothing suggested fibres and hair would have been caught. And there had been the sperm samples gathered on their garments. Only a blood type had been derived however, the frustratingly common O-positive.

But she was not wrong. They had to be linked. She could clearly see the wing-like arrangement of the cut garments—

"Alex, do you have a minute to update me?"

She looked up, blinking foggily at DCI Harper. "Of course, Ma'am. Take a seat."

After closing the office door, her superior didn't waste any time. "Has this Northern thug given you anything?"

Alex felt an irrational need to defend Gene Hunt. She quickly said, "Yes, Ma'am," but then realised she'd backed herself to a corner. "His information has given me a lot to work on," she said evasively. "I've only just started though."

The older woman settled deeper in the chair across from Alex. Leaning back, she peaked her fingertips. "This case could really get your name out there, Alex. Just the sort of publicity which could help your career."

"And of course, stopping the killer will be a very good thing," Alex pointed out gently.

The corner of Harper's mouth quirked. "Of course." Tenacious as ever, she returned to her theme. "During the press briefing after the Azmat arrest, I managed to work your name in. You should check today's papers. You'll be in them."

Alex tried to look grateful. She understood how political a successful career in the Met would be. But when confronted with the reality of it, she found it distasteful.

"I even slid in a reference to this case. And how you'd be returning to the investigation, so they should be expecting to see some results soon. We can't have the London public thinking the usual criminal element will run free while we're dealing with international terrorism."

Alex protested: "DCI Harper, we can't do this sort of work on a schedule—" She felt a cold finger run down her spine. She'd seen more than one case go tits up because of ambitious superiors pushing for headlines.

Harper soldiered on, not seeming to notice Alex's reserve. "There'll be a DCI spot opening up in the next few months and I want you to be positioned for consideration. They have notoriously short memories upstairs, but if you'll get an arrest soon, the timing will be perfect. Your book will be published by then—"

Cutting her superior off, Alex was firm. "I'd rather not get too far ahead of myself. Right now, I'm working on this case—"

The older woman glanced over her shoulder out the office windows to the squad. "I don't see Hunt. Have you sent him away already?"

"No," Alex said warily. "He's gone out."

"Probably starting to drink early," Harper said with derision and Alex had to bite her tongue.

"He's following a lead," she said. After fobbing off her DCI's questions for a while longer, Alex was relieved to have Harper leave.

As soon as she closed her office door, Alex called Gene on his mobile. The phone rang through to his voicemail, which she noted only had the auto-reply with the number. "Hunt, it's DI Drake. Please call me immediately," she said tersely and cut the connection.

She didn't have long to wait. Hunt came thudding through the incident room doors, Tabitha following, looking much less enthusiastic than when they left. He dropped into the chair at a desk and dragged the phone to sit squarely in front of him. "Get me the number of that probation officer," he demanded of the constable.

Tabitha rushed to her computer whilst Gene impatiently twirled his lighter on the desktop. Alex watched this all from her office doorway, arms folded. When Gene dialled the phone and started bellowing at someone, she motioned the constable into her office.

With a few well-aimed questions, she got a recounting of the afternoon's events from the quaking young woman. Returning to the doorway when she saw Hunt bang down the receiver, she called out, "DCI Hunt, I'll speak to you now."

He waved his hand in her direction as he furiously scribbled notes.

"Now!" she barked. The room went dead quiet and everyone watched them.

Gene glanced over his shoulder at her as though noticing her for the first time. He observed: "Yer knickers are bound tighter than a hangman's knot."

Alex would not be riled. She remained in her office doorway, putting the full force of her fury in her glare. "You will come to my office so we may discuss the status of the case, DCI Hunt," she breathed.

He rose with a martyred sigh and sauntered slowly to her office in the manner of a defiant schoolboy. All the rest of the squad pretended to be working. She closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Moving to stand behind her desk, she motioned him to sit. He remained standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Tabitha stared at the floor.

"DCI James tells me that you sought out a recently released offender and forcibly entered his domicile—"

"You grassed on me?" Gene accused Tabitha.

Alex wouldn't allow him to bully the young woman. "She reported unprofessional and possibly illegal behaviour to her section leader!"

He did something which greatly surprised her. He gave a nod. "Right. Being loyal to Boss. Only proper. Good on, Tabby."

Exasperated, Alex flopped into her chair. "You bloody, bloody man—"

"Oi," he said with one of his pouts. Uncertain, Tabitha looked from one to the other.

"DC James, you may go. Please write up your report and send it to me."

"Yes, Ma'am," Tabitha said before scurrying away, closing the door behind her with obvious relief.

Refolding her arms, Alex eyeballed the tall figure leaning easily against the wall. She'd planned to finally bring up the subject of Sam Tyler in a roundabout casual way, but considering her blood pressure was thumping, she didn't think that she could manage casual at the moment.

After a deep breath, she said: "So who is this Arthur Layton and what role does he play in the case?"

His expression shut again; she marvelled at the way his eyes could go from such warmth to blankness in a second. "He's a snout o' mine...Or he was, back in the day," Gene said gruffly.

"And you thought he'd have some information about our current crimes?"

"He was one one of those toe rags 'anging around the docks with his grubby little fingers in all the pies. He saw a lot. But he got put away before the murders could be stopped."

She regarded him steadily. His eyes were shielded by those damnable long lashes of his. He was lying about something or everything. Frustration rose again.

"What would he know about the murders?"

"He's going to have seen something, or heard something, I tell you."

"So I'm just to take your word for it." She was smiling, but it was completely insincere.

"Yes." He pouted again. She was coming to see that move was a warning of his mood, but she didn't give a damn.

"Thus you have nothing more to give us on your murders but some drug dealer who's done a runner. Who, rather than grass on the killer to get an early release, spent twenty-five years in prison."

"Yes."

"Bullshit!" was her most coherent response. "If that's all you've got, you can just go back to Manchester! You're a disruption to the squad—"

He lunged forward, grasping the edge of her desk to lean towards her. "Dammit, Bolly, you've got to trust me!"

That name again and his gaze was intimate once more, but it wasn't for her. She felt an odd lurch to her heart.

Just as quickly, he stood again and ruffled his hair. "Sorry. DI Drake."

"DCI Hunt, we need results and we need them now—" She was struck by the echo of Harper's words that she heard in her own and disliked it.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," Alex called out.

Donna poked her head around the door. "I hate to barge in," the detective said with complete sincerity.

"No problem," Alex said, coming around the desk to take the paperwork that Donna was holding out. She scanned it quickly, adding her signature to the relevant pages.

Calmed, she asked Hunt, "What did the probation officer have to say?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Layton checked in the day of his release. The flat was a regular hole they shove the new boys into. He was utterly shocked that our twonk took off," he said with contempt. "No family, no friends to impose on. No visitors all the time he was inside."

"I doubt this man could be much help, even if you could find him," she said. "I've been working on my profile—"

"I'm telling you, we need to find Layton—" He paced the small office with long strides and Donna watched with appreciation, Alex noted sourly.

"We can follow multiple lines of inquiry," she said with a sense of superiority.

He glanced up at the clock. Where the hell had the day gone? Every moment in Alex's world was precious.

"Pub," he said.

Alex signed the last of Donna's paperwork. "Excuse me?" she said.

"We should go to the boozer. Do me best thinking over a pint o' lager. Or two."

"I'm quite sure you do," Alex said haughtily.

Donna stifled a laugh, but said, "Sounds like a grand idea, Guv."

Gene ignored her. "It's part of your role as Boss, Drake. Pay for the first round."

Alex looked at Donna. "You're not expecting that, are you?"

"Well, actually—" said Donna but Alex had moved on.

"I've to pick up Molly from ballet, then I need to supervise her homework—"

Frustrated, Gene whirled on his heel. "Fine, I'll follow me line of inquiry."

She tried to protest, but he was already gone, bellowing for DC James to come with him.

Uncertain, Tabitha stood but looked to her superior's office. Alex remained in the doorway. She nodded curtly to let the constable know that she could go, then turned away.

James still wasn't sure. "Sir, I don't think—"

"You're jus' taking me for a ride, okay?" he said curtly, not checking to see if she was following as he stormed from the incident room. The remaining detectives released a collective breath as the tension left with him.

Gene directed the constable to Layton's shop, thinking that like any rat, the scumbag would have returned to his shitpile. She followed her talking device carefully but when she pulled to a stop, it was in front of a shiny glass building block. Where once only a few low-lifes went about their shady business, crowds bustled, coming off work and returning home to the hundreds of flats in the building.

"Are you sure this is the place, DCI Hunt?" Tabitha peered through the windscreen.

Gene confirmed the street number on the printout that Tabitha had made for him. When it matched, he got out and lit a fag.

The constable came around to stand by him. "Sir?" Dusk was falling and a light rain had started. Gene flipped up his collar and leant against the car.

"What the hell has happened here, Tab?" he asked.

"What do you mean, sir?"

He wave a hand. "This. All tarted up; can't even see the water, let alone smell it."

"Oh, they've cleaned up the waterways since you were living here."

"Is Fenchurch East station still here, or have they turned it into a stinking curry shop?"

"I believe the station has been closed and it's now an auxiliary location."

"course," he grumbled. He passed his hand over his eyes.

Tossing down his cigarette, he asked, "Take me away from here, girl. All this glare is hurting me eyes."

They drove toward Islington in silence. Finally Tabitha said, "Thanks again for taking me out with you. I know that I'll learn a lot from you."

He stared moodily out the passenger window. "Doubt that. Hang onto DI Drake's sleeve. She'll teach you everything you need to know to get on in the new Met."

James made a small sound of protest in her throat.

"'sides, you're doin' alright. You found my victims, didn't you?"

She insisted: "Dave Ritchie—"

"Took the credit," he said firmly.

Tabitha pouted. She was learning well.

"Wot?" Gene asked.

She slewed her eyes at him when they stopped at a light. "He didn't want to contact you. I had to take it to DS Welton."

Gene stored that information away. He motioned at a Tesco Express on the corner. "Drop me here, luv."

Inside, he sought out the frozen food aisle. That boxed meal last night had been good enough. The way was blocked by women gathered around a cardboard cutout of a tall, smirking man in a chef's smock. They were all watching a television playing a clip of the same chef extolling the virtues of his line of frozen dinners.

He was filmstar good-looking, with a mouthful of big white teeth that flashed constantly as he spoke. His Cockney accent was thick and suspiciously exaggerated to Gene. "No more gummy Shepherd's Pie for yah dear ol' dad. In my deconstructed pie, the taters remain fluffy and light—"

"Bloody hell," Gene muttered contemptuously and pushed rudely past to snatch a couple of boxes of Toad in the Hole and Bubble and Squeak by the cheapest brand, then down another aisle for biscuits and other snacks. Only when he got the register did he remember that he had no cash. Recalling what Alex did in the coffee shop, he carefully removed the plastic card from his wallet and handed it to the bored-looking clerk after she told him the total.

She made a great show of sliding it along the edge of a small device on his side of the counter but Gene just pooched out his lips at her.

"Only one bag, sir?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, watching the device with trepidation, then letting out a huff of relief when APPROVED appeared on the small screen.

"They're there at the end then," she said, pointing.

Glancing around, he saw everyone else was filling their own bags. "Bloody hell," he grumbled again, shoving the frozen food into one plastic bag.

Next stop was an off-licence for a proper-sized bottle of single-malt whiskey and a new flask, then he returned to Alex's, collar still turned up against the rain.

In her flat, Alex heard the downstairs door slam. So that man was back. Must be over his sulk by now. Snapping shut the file she was reading, she decided to speak to Tabitha James again tomorrow and assure her that the young constable was under no obligation to be Hunt's lackey.

She pulled the Sam Tyler file from her briefcase. And she needed to press Gene Hunt about this as well. Whilst flipping through the pages, she saw a scribbled note that she'd made in a margin on the interview transcription. Tyler's mother, Ruth, had moved to London after her son's death to be closer to her only remaining family, a sister Heather. Alex had meant to speak to the woman, but had been pulled into the Angel killings and then the Azmat case.

Glancing at the clock, she saw it was too late to call now. But tomorrow she would arrange for Ruth Tyler to come by New Scotland Yard and see how Gene Hunt reacted.

She should get to bed herself. The thought of sleep gave her a stab of anxiety. What had been last night's dream? She recalled only darkness, and a rocking sensation as though in a swing or boat. A silver glint in her vision, and she reached for it, but never able to touch it...

Resolute, she pushed back from the table. She must sleep.

oOo

Gene tossed his empty food container in the trash bin and drained his glass of whisky. Ripping open a package of pink wafers, he shoved a handful in his mouth.

Lifting the phone, he continued to record his thoughts, spraying pink crumbs everywhere. "Layton's here, White's here. That I get. But why did they show up in my world? I swear the Prices were in my world well before Bolly showed up. How and why?"

He lowered it for a moment. Always came back to why. The Chief Super wouldn't be transferring in people who weren't coppers. So where did they come from? His imagination? If he got to just pick anyone, why hadn't he chosen Coop or the Duke?

He flopped down to sofa. He usually wasn't one for introspection, but this was no ordinary case. Layton had killed her parents; it made sense that Layton would come after Alex when he got out. After all, she knew he was the killer... _But she didn't_...

He rubbed his skull hard as though he could push the headache away. Had to stay sharp, block out the pain and the confusion and the smell of that dozy mare.

His eyes drifted shut. His nose buried in her hair, his lips grazing her forehead, the soft slide of her breasts and hips against his chest and legs as they danced... What a woofter he'd been, settling for a couple of beers and a cuddle. And look where it'd gotten him; another year of blue balls...Should've pushed her right against the door when she opened it; shown her that he meant business—Clint would have!

He hated feeling this way! He was the Gene Genie, dammit, not some drippy pillock! She'd made a fool of him; he couldn't forget that. Should have tossed Keats down the stairs instead of going to hide in the bedroom...Bed...Room...Her bed...

Grumbling discontentedly, he drifted off to sleep despite a slow thud of blood heading to his groin.

oOo

A rapping woke Gene. It took him a few minutes to figure out where he was and why. He stumbled to the door and yanked it open. Alex was waiting impatiently, her daughter peering around her arm.

"Your phone's off," she said.

He looked down. That damn thing was still in his hand, but now its screen was dark. "It turned itself off," he said grumpily, waving it at her.

She snatched it from him. "Battery's dead."

"You came down to tell me that? Brought the nipper?" he growled.

"No." She tossed his phone aside. "There's been another killing."

He started to curse, but noticed Molly's bright gaze. Instead, he grabbed his jacket and overcoat. "Let's go," he commanded as he shrugged into them.

To his surprise, Molly hopped in the back seat of Alex's car. "We have to drop her off at Evan White's," she explained.

He did allow profanity now. "Bloody hell," he muttered as she sped down the darkened street.

"May I do the light?" asked the girl.

"DCI Hunt is going to have to do it," Alex said with good humour.

"Gov, it's under the seat," Molly said, excited.

"The light?" he asked, even as he fumbled for it. Sure enough, a blue police light fixture was there. He rolled down the window.

"It just sticks on," Molly told him. He pushed the light against the car's roof as Alex took a corner sharply.

She squealed to a stop before a tall glass building. Evan was waiting at the kerb. Molly jumped out, giving her mother a wave before she ran to him. Alex pulled away, focused on the nearly empty street.

"What do we know?" Gene asked.

"Female victim, young," Alex replied tersely. "Found about an hour ago behind a newsagent adjacent to the Kings Cross Station. Everything points to it being our killer."

"The wings?"

"Present and accounted for."

It wasn't far to the Kings Cross from Evan's flat, Gene realised as they pulled up. Pretty shady neighborhood for such a posh bloke to be living.

Large police vans lined the street and flapping tape cordoned off the pavement. Alex led the way, flashing her badge at every PC who tried to stop her.

At the end of a dark, dripping alley, a pale tent shone bright as a paper lantern. A flap opened, and Dave Ritchie, encased in blue from head to toe, peered out. "Right, you're here," he said disagreeably. "You'll need to suit up." He held out another coverall.

Gene looked at the other officer's get up with outrage. "The Gene Genie does not dress like Thomas the Tank Engine."

Alex pushed him back with her hand to his chest. "Let's just take a look from the entry, then we'll gown up," she said.

Ignoring Gene's huff, she looked by the flap that Ritchie held up. She had to blink a few times from the glaring light. Despite his protests, she could sense that Gene was right behind her, his already familiar scent of cigarettes, wool and old-fashioned cologne close.

DS Welton, also cocooned in blue gear, went to the shrouded body and turned back the sheet.

Pubescent female victim, nude, her budding breasts shockingly exposed by her widespread arms. Bent legs suggesting a leap. Her long hair was caught in a pool of clotted blood, draped over the membrane of dark skin carefully arranged in two gossamer thin wing-shapes. Finally, her face, with the corners of the mouth forced up in a smile—sometimes the killer used dental clips to hold the lips to the grotesque cheer. Her downy cheek reflected the harsh light and Alex blinked once more. A light mole was on the left cheek—it was Molly.

Alex whirled, panicked in flight like a bird herself. She was instantly caught by Gene, his long arms wrapping around her and pulling her close. He grasped her face in his gloved hands and forced her to meet his imploring gaze. She managed to hear, "It's not Molly. It's not her," through the rushing of blood in her ears.

"Yes it is, Gene," she panted, barely able to stand from her terror. "It's meant to be her."

He enveloped her again. "I know. I know."

~end Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

A flash of blue and he knew, he knew. It was her, his angel. She'd fly soon enough and so he could be patient and just watch for now.

See her every day as she passed, smiled, nodded at him even. How can I forget you? I'm never gonna give you up, up I said. The toss of her golden hair, blue jumper, blue eyes, blue bangle on her thin wrist.

Blue the color suits you cool blue How will you stay this way forever?

He would make her stay this way forever. He fell into step behind her, his own shadow just behind.

* * *

The only thing Alex felt was two large hands cupping her face. Her body was nothing, her mind blank. All she heard was the explosion over and over, her skin hot from the flames, a joker's grin on two black skulls...

She was being lifted, cradled, carried. Her head lolled back, expecting to see Evan, but it was a beardless face, a younger man, his blond hair flopping over his brow, concern in his pale eyes. It was wrong—it wasn't what she remembered—

She struggled, blood returning to her limbs. "Put me down," she gasped.

"Alright, alright, you dozy mare," he grumbled, setting Alex on her feet.

Tugging her ponytail tight, she glared at Gene Hunt. "I'm fine," she insisted even as she continued to waver on shaking legs.

He turned away. "Welton!" he barked, "get out 'ere!"

DS Welton poked his head through the tent flap. "Sir?"

"Go to Evan White's flat, now. I want you an' a couple plods to do a full security sweep of the building and sit your arse outside the door. If Molly Drake so much as hiccups, I will personally hammer your butt plug up to your tonsils. Understand?"

Shedding his blue coverall, Welton nodded vigorously.

Still weak, Alex tried to protest Gene's manner, but her sergeant was already gathering a group of uniformed constables.

She started again. "I'm sorry, DCI Hunt, for my reaction. Really, I'm not normally like this—"

"Your daughter is bein' used to threaten you,"he said gruffly, "you 'ad a turn." He flipped his coat's collar up against the night's chill. Mist drifted down from the cloudy sky and he moved closer to her as though for warmth, but she realised that this shielded her from curious gazes of the other investigators.

He fished a flask from his jacket pocket and took a swig, then offered it to Alex.

"Is that...alcohol?" she asked, appalled as she caught a whiff of strong spirits.

"It's not _alcohol_; it's Scotch," he protested.

She shook her head, both to reject the drink and his flaunting of regulations. He only shrugged and took another draught before putting away the flask.

"You really believe the killer was trying to send a warning?" she asked, her voice small. She should have taken that drink.

He glanced around, his steely gaze narrowing. He took another step closer so she was forced to crane her neck to look at him. "How could this bastard know you're after him?" he asked.

Blinking, she tried to think straight. "DCI Harper told me earlier that she'd made a statement in the press conference yesterday that I'm working on the case again—"

He swore. "Flamin' cow!"

She tried to reassure herself. "It has to be a coincidence. This killer is too meticulous. He selects his victims days, perhaps even weeks, in advance. He hasn't had enough time to find someone who resembles Molly—" Her daughter's name caught in her throat.

"These poxy journos..." he grumbled. "Was your name ever connected with the case before yesterday?"

The briefing three weeks ago when the task force was created for the Angel killings. Standing there awkwardly beside Meg Harper, beribboned like some prize pony. "Yes," she said. "I was on television—"

He remembered her appearance on the news for the Hollis case, lovely and articulate before the cameras. Whilst he'd made a right arse of himself. He frowned. "I just bet," he muttered. "How long ago?"

"Three weeks."

"Plenty of time for this nounce to find out all your details, target a Molly look-alike—"

She went weak again and sagged. He grabbed her arm, supporting her once more, all whilst still blocking her from the others.

"Nothing is going to happen to her or you. I promise."

Tipping her head, she tried to understand these moments of intensity that would flash from Hunt. He'd known her only a few days.

"Let's get out of 'ere," he said abruptly. "'ave the pros clean this up. We'll go over the evidence tomorrow. For now, get you and the kid home and tucked up."

"I won't sleep; I might as well work," she said, turning from his grasp. "And we're not telling Molly anything. She can't know—"

Ignoring his protests, she pushed past. "Ritchie, what do we have?" she called out.

Ritchie came out of the tent. "Ma'am?" he said in an insolent tone.

Alex could feel Gene bristle behind her like some massive brindled mastiff. She fought hysterical laughter.

"Yes, Ritchie," she said sharply. "Report."

But the investigator had little for her. No one had seen or heard anything until the night shift newsagent had slipped into the alley behind his stand to have a jimmy riddle. Ritchie recounted this in an exaggerated Cockney accent, smirking at Gene. The aged gentleman had explained that he had an enlarged prostate and had to go quite often.

"If he's taking a piss every hour, that's not a lot o' time to position the body. The killer would need to know the old gent's schedule," said Hunt and lit a cigarette.

Irritated to have his narrative interrupted, Ritchie acknowledged that the newsagent had admitted as much. "He thinks he nipped out at nine, then around ten, and found the body a bit after eleven."

"The killer must have watched him too," Alex noted, feeling a noose tightening around her neck.

"Right then," said Gene briskly. He remembered something from a case he'd worked with his Alex. "Have you collected all this trash and checked it?" He waved his gloved hand at the row of battered bins and skips lining the alley.

Ritichie's face fell. "Not yet, sir."

"Get on it then. We'll need a full report by the morning," Gene told the inspector. Now he was the one smirking. He cupped Alex's elbow and steered her away.

"Sleep tight," Ritchie called after them, his nasty attitude back.

"Keys," Gene said when they got to her car. She started to protest, then handed them over. It took him a few tries to get the doors to unlock, cursing all the while, but just as she was about to wrench the fob away, he got them open.

He squealed away from the kerb, pressing her back to the seat.

"Could you at least look before you pull into traffic?" she said sarcastically.

He only grunted and accelerated, blasting through a red light.

She demanded: "Pull this car over—"

He didn't even spare her a look. "We're the police. We can drive any way we like," he said out of the side of his mouth, reminding her of some copper from an old movie.

She tried a softer tone. "Gene—" It had absolutely no effect and her temper flared again. "Hunt!" she barked.

He was too busy fighting with the car's controls to pay any attention. He had the accelerator pressed all the way down, but the vehicle's speed only increased at a stately pace. When he tried to take the corner sharply, the brake pedal resisted his stomping motion and slowed the car carefully. He couldn't feel the road beneath him at all; the suspension was too smooth and the steering too soft. He wasn't driving with his balls, it was like he had a pair of double D tits on the wheel.

It didn't help that Alex was nagging at him as if she was his gran. "This isn't a Dodge 'em car at the arcade, DCI Hunt—"

"You have that right," he bellowed back. "They handle better!"

Before she could protest any further, he swerved to stop at the kerb. "'ere we are," he said unnecessarily.

"I will drive home," she said stiffly before greeting the constable posted at the building's front door. They waited for Evan to buzz them in, then they crossed the marbled foyer, their footfall echoing in silence of night.

Gene lurked right behind her on the lift. In the reflective chrome walls, she could see his lip curl as he looked around. Who has contempt for a lift?

True to his word, Welton was standing sentry outside the flat's door. Evan opened it for them, wearing a red satin dressing gown over his black silk pyjamas. "Are you certain that you want to take Molly home? It's so late and she's asleep."

"We'll take her," Gene said before Alex could speak.

He pushed in past Evan and the twist of his lips deepened as he looked around at the stark interior. Alex was accustomed to the older man's ultra modern flat, but looked at it through new eyes. Her godfather had always made a point to have his flats redecorated every five years to remain in style, but the result was a dwelling that was not a home. It was a soulless set out of a glossy decor periodical. One wall was glass, as if a portal into space's cold vacuum, all black night sky and flickering white lights like stars.

And certainly not the sort of place that she'd imagined Gene Hunt could ever find comfortable. After giving a contemptuous sniff, he headed down the only hall towards the bedrooms.

"DCI Hunt!" Alex hissed, following.

He slipped into the guest room through the ajar door. Molly stirred when he said in a low voice, "Little lady...It's the Guv. Let's go." Turning back the covers, he lifted her.

Alex clung to the doorjamb, suddenly dizzy at the sight of the girl cradled by this dark figure. "Grab her robe," he told Alex, his tone still quiet.

Numb and light-headed, she gathered up her daughter's things and fell in behind Gene, shaking her head to silence Evan.

"Mum?" Molly stirred but burrowed her face into his shoulder.

Alex stroked the girl's hair off her face. "I'm here, honey. We're going home."

Welton rode with them down in the lift. "Shall I move the watch to your residence, DI Drake?"

Before Alex could reply, Gene told the sergeant, "Send the plods over. You can head home and get some kip before the morning. We need you fresh."

Although that's exactly what she would have told Welton, Alex was resentful.

"The keys," she said tartly at her car.

He shifted Molly's weight, indicating they were in his coat pocket. Feeling self-conscious, she fished in the deep pocket, making sure to keep her reach away from his thigh.

He lay Molly in the backseat and the girl swung herself upright, rubbing her eyes. "What's happening?" she asked as if waking from a dream.

"We're going home," Alex told her again. She didn't normally pick up Molly if she'd been called out at night, but this time, she just had to have her daughter close.

At her flat, two pandas were parked out front. The constable sergeant quickly gave her a rundown of the posted sentries, reassuring Alex. When she turned back, Gene had Molly in his arms again, but this time, the girl was wide-awake and giggling. A man was a rare and exotic creature for her and she appeared to be enjoying it. Her godfather certainly would never carry her about like a sleeping princess.

"I don't have my slippers," she explained to her mother, kicking her bare feet up in the chilly night air.

Alex grabbed Molly's feet and clutched them to her chest, covering her pale toes to warm them. "Silly," she said affectionately.

"Oi," said Gene, "clear the way." He shouldered past and Alex trotted behind.

Another constable met them on the top landing. Before he could speak, she held up her hand. "Let me get my daughter in bed," she told him quietly, unlocking the door.

"This way," Molly said, pointing with her foot, obviously enjoying herself.

Alex scolded, "Don't take advantage of DCI Hunt."

Gene just gave her a withering look and strode down the hall.

"What's going on?" Molly asked once they were in her bedroom.

"Nothing, Molls. I just need to get a report from these constables," Alex said, stretching the truth a bit as she gave Gene a warning glare.

He moved out of the bedroom, leaving mother and daughter to sort out whatever girls got up to at night. In the small lounge, he roamed from picture to picture, turning on a lamp to see them better. Caroline Price, back in sharp detail. He finally noticed how much Alex and she looked alike. But Alex was softer and warmer, he thought, giving a harrumphing noise.

"What is it?" She'd come up behind him.

"You were a cute kid," he said honestly, and she actually blushed. He dropped his head; now he was embarrassed.

Alex found herself staring at him in the lamplight, noticing again his long eyelashes and feeling vaguely jealous and intrigued at the same time.

"I need to talk to PC Carter," she stuttered. "I'll be back in a moment."

"Course," he mumbled, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

Once she was gone, he went back to his investigation. There was a lovely picture of Alex when she was a young mother cradling her baby in a garden. Her hair was long; well past her shoulders, and in the sunlight, glowed auburn. She smiled at the camera with a happiness that he'd never seen from her before. He had to do whatever he could to stop her death.

Here he'd been chasing after Arthur Layton, and it must be this Angel Killer that plugged Alex. He couldn't be making mistakes like that, not with so much riding on it. He thumped the wall with his fist, shaking her pictures.

"What is it?" Alex asked again, returning to the room.

He realised his face must show his thoughts, and he closed off his expression. "Nothin'" he grumped.

She was too tired to try to understand this frustrating man's sudden flashes of emotion that nearly drowned her and his blank features that were like a door she wanted to pound on. "Well then—"

"I'll take the couch."

"What?" Alex gasped.

"Couch." He waved his hand at the piece of furniture as though she was daft.

"Can't imagine why you'd need to do that," she said with false brightness, choosing to ignore his intent. "We'll see you in the morning for the ride to work."

"Alex—"

His voice took on this husky edge when they were in darkness, making her want to move closer. She stepped back, motioning him towards the front door. "Good night, DCI Hunt."

* * *

Alex lay in the dark, her eyes wide open. She knew that two constables were in the garden, hidden back in the shrubs. And that four more were staged in the front along the street. One more was even on the roof. She was still terrified and hated herself for it.

When an alarm shattered the silent night, she gave a scream before clapping her hand over her mouth. Scrambling from under the covers, she darted from her room, wishing that she'd returned to the Yard to check out a weapon. Molly stuck her head out from her bedroom.

"Mum?" she asked.

"Nothing, sweetie," Alex said, a shake in her voice.

But then she could hear more clearly. It was a piercing, high-pitched smoke alarm. There was a knock on her front door. Cautiously, she braced the door on her leg and cracked it open.

PC Carter peered in. "DI Drake, everything fine in here?"

"Yes, what's happening?"

"It's coming from the garden flat level. Sounds like a smoke alarm."

"It is..." A smoker in the flat...

"Son of a—" This was the last thing she needed. "Stay here," she ordered, grabbing a raincoat from one of the hooks by the door. Pulling it on over her sleep shirt, she hurried down the stairs barefoot.

Another uniform was outside, looking up and down the street, alert.

"Keep watch," she told him, brushing past.

She found Gene Hunt and the building's owner, Harry Nettles, standing outside the garden flat, its door open. The alarm had stopped, but there was definitely something wrong. She could see the carpet was sopping, and all the furniture was dripping with water.

"Hunt—"

He didn't allow her to go any further. "Not going to be able to stay here," he said, folding his arms.

She would not be diverted. "What's happened?"

Nettles interjected. "Smoking in the flat. Set off the sprinklers." He glared up at Gene. He was a very short man. He was also a true-bred Cockney, who'd owned this building in Isleton his entire life. He lived on the premise and ran a tight ship, and obviously knew Gene's sort at first glance.

Looking innocent, Gene shrugged. "Forgot. Too many things on me mind."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Nettles," Alex said. "I never would have let this flat if I'd realised—"

"Don't need to be apologising for me like a dog that's wet the rug," grumbled Gene.

"Then you shouldn't have done it!"

Gene ignored her temper. "Can't stay here. Suppose I'll have to take that couch of yours after all."

She was struck blind with fury. Barely able to speak, she finally gasped, "You damaged this poor man's flat just to get onto my couch?"

Nettles pulled himself up his full height. "What's this about? This tosser trying to get one over on you?"

"No worries," Gene said airily to Nettles and then glared down his nose at Alex. "I don't know what you're on about—"

"Just come along," she growled. "Mr Nettles needs to get back to bed and so do I."

Gene picked up a carryall that had been sitting outside the door.

"What's that?" she asked.

"My clothes."

"You just happened to have them all packed before the sprinklers went off?"

Gene shifted his eyes.

"Come," she huffed, storming away without waiting for him.

Back in her flat, she got bedding from a linen cupboard and tossed it on the couch. Gene shed his overcoat and jacket.

"Do you want to change?" she asked uncertainly, feeling confined in the tight room with this large man. "The loo is off the front hall."

"Don't wear jim-jams like some poof," he said with a sniff.

She suddenly flashed on Evan in his silk pajamas.

"All right then," she said stiffly. "Let's see if we can get a few minutes of sleep on what's left of the night." It had felt like the longest day of her life. But she found herself lingering, watching him carefully make up his bed. She was reminded that he'd been in the military as he neatly tucked the sheet around the cushions.

Leaning on arm of a chair, she told him, keeping her voice low, "Tomorrow, I'm going to arrange for Molly to go away on a French language immersion course as soon as possible. Her school has a satellite campus in Nice. I'll tell her I was keeping it a surprise."

"Nice?" he asked.

"France."

"Yeah, I know where it is," he muttered. "Only satellite campus my state school had was the nick. Immersion was 'avin' your 'ead shoved in the toilet by the bigger lads."

She fought laughter, sensing he was serious despite his flip tone. "The course will be about two weeks," she told him.

"That's enough time," he promised.

He tugged off his tie with a slow, deliberate motion, mesmerising her. A sudden wave of exhaustion overcame Alex. She sagged and her raincoat slipped open.

Gene had sat to remove his shoes and lifted his head to speak, but the words died in his throat. Her bare legs stretched out towards him. His gaze travelled slowly upwards from her pale narrow feet, along the slim calves, over the tight knees...sliding past the long thighs...a dark cave under her shirt's hem beckoned him. On what he fondly thought of as Pegs Days when Bolly had worn skirts, he'd spent many hours craning his neck, trying to get just this view. And now that holy land lay before him.

She noticed his glazed eyes and slack mouth, and flipped the coat back over her legs.

He gave a cough. "That'll be enough time. No worries," he assured her. "I'll have this bastard by then."

Folding her arms, she focused on the picture of she with baby Molly hanging on the wall behind Gene's shoulder. "She's all I have in the world, you see. I can't lose her..."

"She won't lose you," he corrected.

She looked confused.

"He's threatening you, not Molly," he said with certainty. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until this scumbag is behind bars or dead."

Standing, she tried to refute him, but he just put up his hand as he stood too. "Not going anywhere," he repeated.

Here she'd been assuming that he was trying something on with her, but he was just being a damn good cop. She flushed at her vanity—what would a man like him ever see in her? "Thanks then," she mumbled.

She backed from the room, but caught the doorjamb to give him a grateful smile. "I'll hold you to that, DCI Hunt. I need Molly back for her birthday party. In time to blow out the candles together."

~ end Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

It's alright…

The dark laneway was lit up with the steady blink of blue. He sprang back when, with a flutter of the pale green sheet, the woman was revealed.

Navy jeans, scarlet blouse with matching high heels, pristine white jacket with the sleeves spread out as if in flight.

Baby's coming back…

With a will of its own, his hand reached out, his fingers tangling with her tresses. They fell away from the body. Short spiky blonde hair had been hidden beneath the wig of dark curls.

The endless chatter buzzed near his ear. Locusts were feeding across the fields behind him, closing in.

He spun around, searching now in the crowd. The police, paramedics, firefighters, doctors, reporters. Their faces were all similar masks of weariness. Job to job blindly to just get it done, ignoring the ticking of your clock. It was too late or too early, whichever way you looked at the numbers on your watch.

His eyes darted from one to another. One of these was not so innocent. One of these knew about him. One of these must have been sent here for him.

He crouched back down next to the body, carefully cataloguing the likeness once more. He didn't believe in coincidences. She was testing him; testing time.

Your hands to stop the time. I'll even be your danger sign.

* * *

Gene was being watched. Bent like a paper clip on Alex's couch, he could feel an intense gaze. He never truly slept; how does a man dream who's living nothing but a dream? He would have only one chance to strike—

His eyes still closed, he rose with a roar and pounced on the watcher. Caught in his hard grasp, Molly screamed, her high voice sharp. All the parts came together for Gene. At first, she'd been surprised by the stranger on the couch, but even after she realised who it was, she was intrigued by this rare creature in their feminine home—a rumpled old man; old to a twelve year old at least.

Just as child and man calmed, Alex shot out of her bedroom, readying to kill whoever was attacking her daughter. Gene put up his hands. "Jus' me!" he announced. "Gave the girl a fright."

"Jesus," Alex breathed, forcing her thundering heart to slow. When she swept her hair back, her sleep shirt rose and she was suddenly aware that she wore nothing else but a pair of white knickers.

His gaze slowly moving over her bare legs, up to her loose breasts swinging under the thin cotton. Gene had that odd expression to which she was becoming accustomed, a sort of wonder and yearning that she found more disconcerting than ogling. Just as unsettling was her own inability not to stare as well. He had been sleeping in his trousers, but the waist button was undone and his vest rode up as he scrubbed at his own hair, mirroring her action. She was surprised to see that his skin wasn't a Northerner's grey shade, but had a golden glow like a cat's hide. A trickle of blond hairs disappeared into his fly.

"What're you doing here, Guv?" Molly asked, causing both adults to jump guiltily, breaking their mutual examinations.

Alex gave him a warning look. He tucked his vest in and shuffled his bare feet. "My flat was damaged last night."

"Damaged?" Molly cocked her head. "Was that what that alarm was about?"

Alex eased back towards her room. "I'll get dressed." She pasted on a smile. "And you're not going to school today. I'll tell you all about it over breakfast."

Tugging her shirt down over her bum, she scurried away.

Molly turned on Gene, not easily fobbed off. "What's happening?" she asked.

"Let's get you some breakie," he said. He was dying for a fag and a fry-up, but he knew that he couldn't smoke in Alex's flat and something told him that there was no bacon or butter in her larder.

With Molly twittering around his heels, he peered in cupboards, managing to find a loaf of bread and a couple tins of baked beans, although the bread was dark and heavy as a brick. The girl helpfully pulled out the toaster and put the kettle on.

He poked through the hanging pots for a suitable one. Molly chided him, "No need for that, Guv. Just heat the beans in the microwave."

Feeling as though he'd been caught out, he grunted in agreement and started to empty the tins into the pot.

"A glass bowl," she said bossily. He heard her mother's familiar tone in her lighter voice. To soften it, she retrieved the correct piece and gave it to him.

Once it was filled with beans, he shoved it in the microwave, hit five minutes, and set about slicing the bread nice and thick.

Molly added water to the kettle and plugged it in, the bubbling noise adding to the buzz of the microwave. But soon a popping noise added to the symphony and both of their heads turned to stare at the microwave.

"Oh no," gasped the girl.

"Wot?" asked Gene, even as he could see the bowl of beans turning through the window, giving off mini eruptions that splattered the interior with red-brown goo.

"Turn it off!" cried Molly, but she yanked the door open before he could do anything. "Potholders," she barked.

"Piss on that," he growled, and just grabbed the bowl. Burned like hell, but he wasn't going to say anything. He returned to the bread, shoving the slices into the toaster roughly, then noticed Molly was wiping out the microwave.

"Ta," Gene rumbled. Maybe she was an alright kid after all. After giving her instructions to watch the toast, he nipped out into the back garden for a smoke.

Alex had showered quickly and pulled on a navy suit over an ironed white shirt, her unofficial uniform. She hurried to the kitchen, somehow feeling that Gene was up to something or filling Molly's head with crazy ideas.

She discovered her daughter buttering toast—Molly never helped her with any cooking. "Where's Mr Hunt?" she asked peevishly.

"He's outside," Molly said. The girl returned to her questioning. "Why aren't I going to school?"

Buying a bit of time, Alex filled the cafetiere with coffee grounds and hot water. Searching around in the back of the cupboard, she found a box of Earl Grey teabags for Gene. Sugar, sugar...she moved boxes and tins aside—

"Mum!" prompted Molly.

More toast popped out the toaster and Alex jumped. Molly, unsettled, sounded alarmed. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Gene came through the back door. "Nothing's wrong," he said heartily.

Alex handed him a steaming mug. He took a sip and raised his eyebrows in approval. "Just as I like it."

"Mum!" Molly insisted.

"It's a surprise!" Alex said, knowing she didn't sound very sincere. "An early birthday present."

Gene pushed her aside and ladled a spoonful of the baked beans onto each piece of toast, then ushered the woman and girl to the small table that served as the dining area. "Eat up," he demanded.

He'd bought Alex some time.

"What is this?" she asked, moving around the beans on her plate.

"What's it look like?" Gene cut off a wedge of toast, but grimacing. Hardly any sauce could be absorbed by this cardboard.

"Not our normal breakfast." Alex narrowed her eyes at Molly. "Surely you could have pointed Gene's way to the yoghurt and granola."

Molly looked innocent as she put a great spoonful of beans in her mouth and shrugged.

"Granola?" Gene pooched out his lips. "This is something you eat? Sounds like something I might rub on me nuggets if I had the pox."

After giving Gene a withering glare, Alex used this opening. "But it's just as well to have this bit of fine British cuisine. It'll be your last for a couple weeks." She was able to convincingly explain that Molly would be spending the morning with her godfather, then fly out in the afternoon for France.

Gene watched them from under his brows. After her initial surprise, Molly was enthusiastic. She was obviously adventurous like her mother— He took a deep gulp of his tea, draining the mug.

"I'll get dressed," he said gruffly.

"Will he be staying here while I'm gone?" the girl asked with studied casualness when he left the kitchen.

Alex realised she'd been staring at the wide shoulders of his retreating back. "Mr Nettles has to do repairs. I'm sure that he'll move to a hotel today. It was just so late last night..." She noticed Molly's doubtful expression. She patted the girl's hand. "Don't worry, honey. Nothing is going on."

Molly quickly cleared the plates, keeping her back to her mother as she mumbled, "I'm not worried about _that_."

Suddenly Alex's temper flared. "Let's not quarrel," she said. "I'll miss you terribly."

Coming to her outstretched arms, Molly snuggled close. "Me too," she said, her breath warm on mother's neck.

Alex inhaled the soft scent of her daughter's hair. Another girl lay dead in the morgue, looking so much like her own. That young woman's mother would never hold her child like this again. Her resolve strengthened.

Gene stuck his head into the kitchen, intending to bellow at them to hurry it up but the words died in his throat. Alex met his gaze over Molly's head and he thought he may drown in the shifting depths of her eyes.

"Come along," he said quietly. "Must get on this case."

Alex stood. "Yes."

After dropping off Molly at Evan's flat, Alex drove them to the Yard. "Sorry about Molly's reaction," she said.

"Found this old dog on her settee. Only to be expected," he said.

"I don't have men over. She's not used to it—"

Gene stared at her. Sure, she wasn't tarted up like his Alex Drake, but she was still posh, and those red-braced City twats only needed her to talk polo and dog breeding to raise their Union Jack, right?

Alex fumbled around, finding his astonished expression disconcerting: "I don't think that it sets the right example—"

"Her mum living like a nun does?"

"I've dated—I date!" Alex insisted. _When had been her last date?_ "I'm just saying that there's no parade of different men at the breakfast table."

"Might not be a bad thing," he grunted. "Otherwise, she'll end up wearing sensible shoes." He glanced at Alex's heavy boots and then out the window.

She shook her head. "What the hell—" She didn't know why she wanted to make this thick-headed arse understand. "It's been just Molly and me for as long as she can remember. I want to give her stability, not be one of those flighty tarts with a new bloke in her bed every week, telling her to call him Uncle John—" She took a deep breath.

"Stable; that you are," he said, but it gave her no satisfaction at all. She chose not to speak again.

oOo

Alex knew it was coming, but a gasp still escaped her when the sheet was flipped back on the latest victim. She took an involuntary step back and encountered Hunt's wide chest.

"'t's 'right," he rumbled and she took ridiculous comfort in his terse words.

"You're not normally one to go all vapours on me," said the medical examiner, a wizened woman with deep-set eyes peering out through thick glasses, humour in her voice.

Gene glared. "The killer picked a girl who looked like DI Drake's daughter."

"I'm so sorry," the doctor said, instantly contrite. She addressed Gene. "I'm Dr Patel. You?"

He introduced himself with as little detail as possible, then bent down to check something that caught his eye.

Patel snapped back to business. "Yes, you've seen that."

Fighting her own revulsion, Alex leaned in too.

"It's hair dye," explained the doctor. Gene and Alex could see the victim's natural hair colour had been dark, but had been dyed light. However, the dye hadn't set and had stained her neck and the top of her shoulders above the post-mortem lacerations.

"That's a new one for our killer," said Patel.

"It was necessary," Alex ground out, "to make her look more like my daughter."

"The bastard—" hissed Gene.

"He's a cool one, our killer," said Patel.

Donna and Tabitha slipped in through the doors. "DI Drake," said the young constable, catching Alex's attention. "We've identified our victim."

She was Barbara Hobson, nineteen year old shop assistant. She'd been missing for three days—disappeared on her lunch break right after DCI Harper's announcement that Alex was back on the Angel Killer case. Her mother hadn't worried.

"Mum just assumed that she was off with another tosser she'd met down at the boozer," offered Donna. "She was more worried about the girl coming home up the duff than her ending up dead."

Unnecessarily, she added, "She was torn up when we gave her the news. She'll be down shortly to give the formal identification."

Gene noticed Tabitha's eyes tear. The girl was too soft. He turned away in disgust, still on edge. The clock was running on his time here in the real world and he was no closer to stopping Alex's death.

"Get to all her friends," he barked. "If she's a slapper, maybe this pillock picked her up in a pub or chatted her up in her shop, lured her away. He couldn't have snatched her at midday without being seen."

Hearing the authority in his voice, Tabitha threw back her shoulders. "I'll check all the CCTV footage for her regular pubs and her shop. I already need to review the footage of the alley where she was found."

"Isn't Ritchie on that?" Alex asked, shaking herself from her own stupor. She was a professional and should act like it.

"Of course, ma'am," Tabitha said, but pursed her lips.

Gene had no idea what they were on about. He'd stick with what he did know. "Is the body telling us anything?" he asked Patel.

Frustrated, the doctor shook her head. "Other than the coloured hair, same as the others. Death brought about by barbiturate overdose, administered orally in a liquid form. No signs of sexual assault. Mutilation of the skin of the upper back." Patel. slapped the tray holding her instruments, causing them to rattle. "And not a single scrap of DNA, not a fibre, skin flake, even an eyelash hair, left on the body."

Again, Gene felt lost, but he got the general gist of it all. They were fuck outta luck. Time to go back to basics.

"Where can I check out a gun?" he asked Alex.

"A gun? What for?" she replied.

"To shoot this bastard if he comes anywhere near you or Molly," Gene said.

She pulled him aside. "I've arranged for a contact from the Home Office to fly to France with Molly, and once she's at the school, no one can approach without drawing attention. It's well into the French countryside."

"'ome office?" He sniffed. "You and your posh friends."

Alex wasn't going to apologise for pulling strings in this instance. She checked the clock. "Her flight leaves at three. I'll take her to the airport."

"No, I'll take you both to the airport," he corrected. "Now about that gun—"

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "You'll have to get clearance from DCI Harper, then the Chief Super—"

"I won't bother with that old bag," he said with a pout. "I'll go to the Chief."

"Suit yourself," she said coldly. "I think the answer will be the same."

Back at the Incident Room, Alex retreated to her office to review the reports from the previous night's crime scene, but found herself glancing at Hunt through the window. He tossed himself down in the chair at his desk and started making calls. She turned her back on him, resolute.

His movement caught her attention again. He'd gone to the evidence boards, pacing before them as a lion strides around his cage. Tabitha joined him, gaining his attention. Alex felt an odd twinge of jealousy when his head tipped close to the young detective.

She came out of her office. "Anything on?" she said brightly to Tabitha, ignoring Gene.

"I've review the CCTV footage, ma'am," Tabitha said, her face alight.

"Give over, Tabby, or pull your knickers back on and go home," Gene barked.

Alex jut out her jaw. "DC James, please report."

Tabitha only giggled, irritating Alex even more. "Sure thing," she said easily, moving to cue up the digital files to a large flat screen TV. The rest of the team gathered around.

"Here, at 22:48, we see a Beech Pond cheese van," Tabitha said, pausing the recording. "Turn down the mews behind Halston Street where the body is found." She started the file again. "On another camera, it exits again tell minutes later, out the other end of the mews."

"There's a restaurant right there," Ritchie said in his bored tone. "He's making a delivery."

"At near midnight?" said Gene, shutting him right now. "Carry on, James."

"I'd agree with Dave, but for the fact that I've noted food goods vans at all the previous crime scenes that we have footage for," Tabitha said.

"The same cheese van?" Gene asked quickly.

The constable replied: "No, sir—"

"Then it's nothing," said Ritchie turning away.

Tabitha went to reply, then closed her mouth.

"Let's see what you have," said Alex, still not convinced.

Hurrying to her desk, Tabitha searched through folders piled atop it. Ritchie gave an ugly laugh at her disorganisation. Gene remained, watching the time lapse footage on the TV.

"Lucky thing this camera was there," he said to Alex.

"Actually, I wish we had more coverage in this Soho area. Even with gentrification, there's too much going on just out of camera range," she grumbled.

Confused, he still nodded. "You got that press conference you mentioned on this thing?" he said.

"I don't see how—"

"We should look at everything," he said.

Muttering under her breath, Alex brought up the file.

Leaning on the table, Gene watched that arrogant old boot blathering on about what a great job that the forces had done to capture Azmat, then Harper looked off camera and motioned.

Alex Drake stepped into the view and he took a deep intake of breath. It was his Bolly, her cool gaze gazing from the TV. Her hair was up in a smooth chignon, not that messy ponytail. Makeup highlighted her features instead of her usual pale appearance. A narrow skirt reminded him that there were lush hips under those baggy jackets. A snug blouse hugged her fine tits. He turned back to give her a satisfied smirk.

She rolled her eyes, and stopped the file. "I don't say anything important," she said before he could protest.

Returning, Tabitha spread out photographs on a tabletop. Ritchie drifted back, despite his proclaimed disinterest.

"A green grocer's, butcher, florist's, and...this same cheese maker," Tabitha said excitedly. "Normal traffic patterns, but this is the first time we have one of the vans placed this close to a crime scene."

Gene nodded. "He's been too clever before this. He must know where these cameras are, and finds dump locations that he can reach with little chance o' being caught on film." He folded his arms. "But this time, he wanted the body found right off. He had to risk a more public spot."

"Track that van down," Alex said crisply. She shot a sharp look at Ritchie. "Too bad we didn't follow up on this before now. Could have saved some lives."

He protested, "How could we have known? There's streets by the crime scenes and delivery vans pass along—"

Gene stepped between them. "Because the bodies had to get there somehow. And these vans would be a perfect conveyance." He moved closer, until he was breathing in the other man's face with stale smoke and baked beans. "So git on it, now."

Alex glanced at the clock. "I best go soon—"

"I'm coming," Gene said, his tone broaching no argument. "Let me pick up that pistol first."

"DCI Harper gave you clearance?" she asked, trailling after him.

"I passed her right by," he said, pulling on his overcoat. "Called to the Chief Super."

"Do you know him?" Alex asked dryly. All old boys together, as usual.

"I know all the Chief Supers," he said cryptically.

Sure enough, his name was at the register for the weapons' locker and he was issued a Glock. He looked a bit uncertain, but fastened the holster to his belt. "Much better," he said, pocketing a box of ammunition.

She started to protest, but then saw the time again. "We must go."

oOo

Alex grumbled at the traffic. "What's the point of the traffic restrictions if it doesn't mean less traffic?"

Molly leant forward as far as her harness would allow. "Only one way to calm her down, Guv. She's got to walk on sunshine," she said knowingly.

"Wot?" he asked, looking from mother to daughter.

"We shan't bother the DCI, Molly," said Alex quellingly. Her lips twitched. "Besides, I see him as more the Rod Stewart or Black Sabbath sort during the '80's."

"What's this about?" Gene asked suspiciously.

Alex flicked on the car's sound system. It wasn't _Walking on Sunshine_, but _Girls Just Want to Have Fun_, and Molly laughed with delight. Still, she mocked her mother. "Please, Mum," she whined dramatically, "don't sing along. I'll simply die of embarrassment."

Opening her mouth, Alex did just that and Molly squealed in horror. All the same, her daughter easily joined her in a rolicking verse of the chorus, but Molly was watching Gene, not her. She suddenly remembered how much she'd need to please her father and could see that same expectation in Molly's face. It was just as well that the girl was going away before she became too attached—that would never do...

"Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world," Alex sang at Gene.

Instead of amused, he looked pained. "Our singing that bad?" she challenged.

"No comment." Gene managed a small smile. "What station is this? The Beeb been taken over by past-sell-date schoolgirls?"

"It's satellite," Molly answered quickly. "There's simply hundreds of stations. Every type of music you can imagine. Even something that I'd like." She flopped back on her seat and folded her arms.

"Oh, your life is such an agony!" Alex called back to her. She started to say something about having to listen to her parents' music while in the car but it caused a chill to pass through her limbs—David Bowie's aching voice, drifting to her...

But Molly had moved on. "You'll be staying with Mum while I'm away, won't you, Guv?"

Both adults were struck dumb.

"Mum said you'd go to a hotel, but I don't think that you should."

"I dunno," mumbled Gene, suddenly fascinated by his watch, turning it on his wrist.

"I'd prefer that you stay," the girl said tightly to Gene.

"What's this all about?" asked Alex, trying to keep her tone light.

"I know something's wrong, Mum. I can feel it. And sending me away like this—you always plan everything to the last detail. You didn't even have my bag packed."

Gene raised his eyebrows at Alex. "Right little investigator. And has you profiled."

"Molly, we can't talk about—"

"I know, I know," the girl said with a sigh. "But I'll just feel better knowing that the Guv is with you."

"I don't need a man to look after me," said Alex, glaring in the rearview mirror. "I shocked that you believe I do."

"Not a man," said Molly, unrepentant. "The Guv. He'll have your back."

"Wise girl," was all that Gene said, deeply satisfied.

"And you can sleep in my room," Molly said, gleeful that she'd won this argument. "You looked so uncomfortable on the couch."

At the airport, Gene stayed back but still in visual range, letting the mother and daughter have their parting. A blank-faced man in a dark suit arrived to take charge of Molly, as they passed on through security and out of sight.

"I hate how we can't go to the gate anymore," said Alex, wiping away the tears on her eyelashes.

Gene gave a vague smile to cover his uncertainty and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "Let's get back and see what the lads have found on those vans," he suggested.

Both were lost in their thoughts as they drove back to London, the radio still playing. Then a familiar tune came on and Gene jerked as though shot.

"Not a Spandau Ballet fan?" asked Alex, glad for the distraction.

"It's not that," he said darkly, turning to stare out the window. It had begun to rain again.

They'd entered the city centre and she stopped at a light. It gave her the opportunity to study his profile. He was truly upset and it had nothing to do with music criticism. She reached to change the station, but his hand covered hers briefly.

"It's fine," he said tightly.

"It's not," she said, then decided to ask the question that had been nipping at her heels since she'd met Gene Hunt. "This Bolly..."

He flinched again. It was rather fascinating, she thought, like giving a shock to a dead frog.

"She's gone?" Alex asked delicately.

He gave one short nod, his mind obviously a thousand miles away as the song continued.

"Is she...dead?"

"She's gone," he said and she could tell from his clipped words that was all she'd get from him. She let it drop for now, and their conversation faded with the song's last notes.

o

Back at the Yard, her team had little for her. The baker had been traced and his night driver would have been the one at his van's wheel. The driver would be reporting to the bakery shortly.

"I'll go to interview him," said Tabitha with determination, ready to make up for the team's earlier error.

The green grocer was from Hampstead and wasn't answering his phone, and more concerning, the cheesemaker and his van had an airtight alibi for both murders. He was an artisan, with only the one van and a small workshop in the Docklands, but the van had been locked up tight while he was at the bedside of his dying father for the time span covering the two murders connected to his van.

"Someone could paint his van to match this bloke's?" Gene suggested half-heartedly. His head ached and he was tired. Not enough smoking and drinking was leaving him below par.

"Did the plates match?" Alex asked, sounding as tired as he felt.

"Yes," said Ritchie, "but those can be faked as well."

"Bloody hell," growled Gene, "another damn dead end!" His hand went to the gun at his waistband.

Donna drifted closer. "You could do with a drink, I think."

He glanced down at her, suddenly wide awake and unsure how to respond.

Alex turned from the evidence boards that she'd been studying. "Hunt, did you fancy picking up some curry? If you're as ragged as I am, I think we should make an early night of it and start fresh in the morning."

Relieved, Gene grunted in agreement. With a smile, Donna turned away, but he heard her mutter, "Guess I've been warned off."

Alex stuffed her briefcase full of reports.

"That's your idea of getting rest?" Gene asked.

She only gave him a grin. "Oh, and Molly asked that you don't leave her Westlife duvet smelling of old fags."

With stifled laughter echoing behind him, Gene squared his shoulders, and tried to exit the Incident Room with an much dignity as possible. This was not his world in more ways that it appeared.

~the end chapter seven


	8. Chapter 8

The line wove around the platform, a serpent offering enlightenment, tempting the saviours to commit original sin.

It's my secret, promise not to tell.

His mask would protect him, but some could not cover their emotions so well. Some were weary, tired of death, tired of life. Some were anxious, nerves of the innocent pulled as tight as those of the one who carried the guilt. Some were belligerent and defensive, they should, would, could, never.

The most belligerent of them all though, was the king who lorded over all at the end of the line. Neither the shuddering of the trains nor the shrill blast of the whistles could drown out this one's roar. He badgered and bullied and held court. This was his world, he claimed. I could tell you something. It's a small world, after all.

The snake shimmied, questions were repeated, answers were recorded. It's a secret, he remembered to remind the other.

He moved closer and closer. Each face haggard and sad as they finally drifted away, their steps slow and plodding, a full day's work still facing them after their ordeal. Make it go away.

He watched as the self-imposed big gun's frustration grew, blaming everyone but himself. They were bumbling, blundering and bungling, unable to process a single thought between them. Not like Drake.

Drake, Drake, Drake… This name became the giant's chant.

He stepped closer again, listening, learning. Don't believe a word of it.

A man or woman, this guardian's fanciful myth of perfection? A feminine angel to bleed, to see the place go red. It couldn't be that easy, could it, to see that the king would lose his crown. Paint a rumour.

* * *

Alex came out of her bedroom, having changed into a bright green jumper and a pair of snug jeans. After some indecision, she'd settled on wearing her hair down. It hung lank, but she refused to fuss with it because then it would look as though she was trying. But she had replaced her sensible, well-trussed bra with a wisp of satin and lace. She intended to get information about Sam Tyler this evening, and although she was disgusted in principle with the concept of flashing her tits at Gene Hunt, something told her this would work. In the few days since he'd arrived, his lingering gaze had become as familiar as the warmth of her mobile in her pocket; she even felt as anxious as when it was gone.

Shaking her head in self-disgust, she set about uncorking a bottle of merlot to go with the lamb koftas with baked tomatoes and aubergine. After dinner was on the table, she selected a playlist from her iPod to stream through the stereo. When she dimmed the lights, and the low tones of Damien Rice filled the dining room, it felt like a date. Perhaps too obvious? She snapped the lights back on as Gene sidled out of Molly's room.

"Smells good," he said.

He'd shed his jacket and cufflinks to roll up his shirtsleeves, but his waistcoat and tie were still on. She felt underdressed rather than enticing.

"You should put some jeans on," she suggested, "the workday's over."

"Didn't seem to bring any," he mumbled but he did loosen his tie and undo the top button of his waistcoat.

"Pop into the shops then. Do some shopping while you're here," she babbled.

He leaned on the doorjamb, that gaze easing over her. The jumper's v-neck was low enough to reveal a decent amount of her cleavage. He gave a little sigh of pleasure and the tip of his tongue flicked at his bottom lip.

The plan seemed to be working...She whirled away and nearly toppled over. His hand steadied her. "No Bananarama record on the hi-fi?" he asked, his breath stirring her hair.

Staring up at him over her shoulder, she finally figured out what he meant. "Oh, I like something that helps me wind down in the evenings," she explained.

She poured two glasses of wine quickly, filling them a bit too much. She had lean over to slurp hers before lifting it to her mouth.

He gave a rusty chuckle, his eyes filled with affection, and her head swarmed as though caught in a windstorm. Damn him; his hand was steady as he lifted his glass without a spill and gulped down a quarter of it.

Holding her glass with both hands to keep from dropping it, she asked: "Do you need to call your wife before it gets too late?"

That sounded obvious, she thought with a cringe. He just looked confused though.

"She may be worried?" suggested Alex, determined to carry on as she'd started. He wore no ring, but she did have standards for her dalliances, no matter how innocent.

"Don't have a missus...anymore," he finally said.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She sat at the table. This was the opening that she was waiting for. "I...I knew someone once, who worked with you, I believe. He'd said that you were married."

Gene sat as well, his features blank.

Alex had never thought of herself as talkative, but there was something about Gene's stoic manner that made her need to fill the void. "Sam Tyler," she said quickly. "A detective in Manchester—"

He pooched his lips. "Tyler...Yeah, I worked on a case or two with him...He punched his ticket, didn't he?"

"Yes," she said carefully. She must think of this as any other interrogation and not notice the shadow of his long eyelashes on his cheekbones. "DCI Tyler committed suicide two years ago," she said abruptly, sounding colder than she intended.

"I read that somewhere." He appeared torn up, and she was surprised.

His mood lightening, Gene gave one of his flash-quick smiles. "He was a little nancy boy, but a damn good copper."

"He spoke just as fondly of you," she said dryly.

Gene turned the tables on her. "How did you know him?"

She was unprepared. "Uh...Well...The truth is, I was interviewing him. He'd been through a traumatic event before his suicide. Did you know about that?"

"A coma, I think..." he said, furrowing his brow.

"Yes." Alex chewed her lip. "I'd hoped to help him. But then I got the call. He was gone—"

"There was no helpin' him, Alex," Gene said, toying with his lamb. "He had to do what he had to do."

"Did you visit him at that time?"

Gene shook his head. "I just know how he thought."

She watched him for a long moment. Sam never once called him sensitive, but she supposed that men wouldn't show this side to other men, particularly a man such as Gene Hunt. She gulped down the lump in her throat. "You said that you worked a case with Sam—"

"Murder. Seemed that a pouncy motor salesman thought he could bump off tarts once he was done with them. Only it was really his slutty missus, tired of sharing him."

"Sam didn't mention that one."

He leant back in his chair, his fine cotton shirt stretching tight across his wide shoulders. "Surprised he didn't," he said slyly. We had to go undercover at this bloke's posh digs. He was into wife swapping—"

"Wife swapping? I haven't heard that term since I was a girl," Alex said with a laugh, her eyes sparkling over her wineglass.

He coughed. "Right. Sam and a...PC went undercover as a married couple. What was her name?"

"Annie?" asked Alex. "He talked about her a lot."

"I think that was it. Nice set of tits," he said gleefully.

Alex stabbed at her kofta. "He didn't mention that part."

"He was too much the gentleman," Gene conceded with a twist of his mouth.

"While you're not," Alex shot back. So much for vulnerable—

He moved forwards in his seat, resting on his elbows and gave her a completely unashamed smirk. His grey shirt made his eyes appear very blue. She looked away.

"So what role did you play in this undercover op?" she asked finally.

His mood instantly changed. His gaze dropped from her chest where it'd been lingering to the remains of his meal. He moved the last few pieces of aubergine around the plate. "Oh, you know, wife-swapping swinging sort of person."

She almost laughed but stopped herself when she noticed the tips of his ears were pink. "As one does," she said noncommittally.

He sounded relieved. "Finished?"

"Huh?"

He motioned to her plate. "Dinner. I'll wash up."

A domestic Gene Hunt wasn't what she expected and she told him so as he gathered up her plate and his.

"You'll have to cook me a proper supper in gratitude," he said and she didn't think that he was joking.

She waited to dry, hip leaning against the sink. This felt much too comfortable by half. She countered with, "The best you'll get from me is a Nigel Anthony frozen dinner. I don't cook unless hard pressed."

"No thanks. Saw those poofter meals on the telly adverts. Turds 're turds, no matter how fancy the package."

She stifled a giggle. "You should like ol' Nig. He's a Eastender boy who made good. Getting us West End toffs to pay a hundred quid to eat at his restaurants and suburban housewives to line up for his frozen foods."

"No one can touch me mam's York pud," he said firmly. "Specially not some barrowboy and his rancid chip oil."

He pursed his mouth in mock aggravation as he violently swabbed a plate, and she nudged his shoulder with hers. "You'll scrub the pattern off," she said.

After giving off a grumpy sound, he handed her the last plate to dry. She turned to put away the dishes and catch her breath. Her vague idea to shake her bits and bobs for information was morphing into something else. She needed to be careful that he didn't get the wrong idea.

As she wiped down the table, he held their two wine glasses, then they drifted to the lounge. He folded himself onto her low couch, one leg up on the coffee table, the other crooked across the cushions. She was reminded of the first time she saw him and he made her think of a scarecrow. Placing the wine bottle on the coffee table, she plopped down beside him before she could chicken out and take a chair. Although she really should back off and turn the lights on... But she felt bolder in the half-light.

After a sip of wine, she told him: "Sam came out of his coma with some interesting delusions."

Gene raised his eyebrows but his face gave nothing away.

"He thought that he'd been transported to the 1970's while unconscious."

"Those were some good times," Gene said.

Her breathing quickened. "And you were there."

"I'm sure I was. Probably nicking the hubcaps off his motor. I was nasty little nipper."

"No, you were you," she explained. "DCI Hunt, of GMP."

He shrugged. "Sam had a rap on the head. To be expected that he'd go a bit nutter." There. End of. He drained his glass.

Alex opened her mouth. Then closed it. "His delusions do mean something," she sputtered. "I believe they represent his unresolved issues with his father's abandonment. Somehow, you came to symbolise his need to find closure—"

"Lord, woman." Gene refilled his glass. "I imagine you and Tyler got along like houses blazing. Blather, blather with the psycho-whatsit."

She harrumphed.

He changed the topic. "Won't miss this couch tonight. Me feet hang off the end."

"You should be fine with Molly's bed. I got her an adult length mattress last year, anticipating that she'll end up a great horse like me." Alex sighed.

His long look at her legs tucked up under her bum suggested he didn't have a problem with her height. But then he asked, "Who's the looker on the poster by her door? The blonde bird."

"Adele?" She was shocked that he didn't know the popular singer.

"Got her album?" He nodded toward the stereo.

"Yes, in there somewhere." Alex didn't move to search her iPod. "She's a bit young for you."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "Nothing wrong with picking the fruit when green and letting it ripen in hand."

She gasped like a fish.

He was obviously enjoying himself. "She's a nice armful. Streets seem to be full of skinny birds. Expect them to all blow into the Thames." His gaze went to her breasts again.

Really, his manner should feel like a violation...Instead, she leant forwards to reach for the bottle.

"That's a refreshing attitude, Gene. So many people are telling that poor child to lose weight—"

She shot her eyes up to catch him staring at her mouth. There was his tongue again, the tip sliding across his lower lip...His cheeks tinged red and he forced his gaze up to the painting hanging above the couch.

"Nice picture." It was a large canvas of a girl in a scarlet school uniform standing on a green knoll, holding a red balloon. In the sky above, grey-tinged clouds in a vaguely human shape loomed over the child.

"It's done by Molly's grandfather. He's an artist. It's Molly." Gene looked unsure. She felt that she had to explain. "It's not meant to be completely representational."

"That's her father's side?" He shook his head ruefully. "The Drakes," he said. "Of course."

"Yes. Peter's a complete rotter, but his parents are dears. I don't know what I would've done without them after he left us." She was surprised that she was telling him this much. She rarely opened up about her marriage, particularly with other men.

"You've been divorced a while then?"

"Since Molly was six months old."

"What the hell?" he growled. "What sorta man—"

"Not a man. A boy in a man's body," she tightly. "He's living in Canada now. I've had to remind him that Molly's birthday is coming up."

"So Evan's there for her instead?"

"Always."

His arm draped along the back of the sofa, his hand resting near the nape of her neck. She expected him to touch her. Instead, he picked at the cushion. "Good," he said, but grudgingly.

She tipped her head as though listening for a sound, then laughed. "I keep thinking Molls will stick her head out of her room, asking for my help with her schoolwork."

"You miss her."

"Of course," Alex said. "You don't have any children, do you?"

"No. The missus had a Chihuahua once though. Spent all 'er time knitting the thing tiny striped jumpers."

She furrowed her brow. "Not quite the same." She took a quick sip of wine to cover her anger. "Molly is my world."

"I've never doubted that," he said quietly.

He slid further down in the cushions, his long limbs taking up more of the sofa. His knee nearly brushed hers, but she wouldn't move and suggest she was intimidated. This close, she could smell him. His scent was familiar, but she couldn't really place it. Day laborers around the house when she was a child? Yes...Brut cologne, cigarettes and alcohol, men who were taciturn and grumpy, but always willing to dig a grave for a little lady's dead goldfish or open a jar of pickles for her when Evan was hopeless. Just as Molly had found Gene a foreign creature, Alex was intrigued by a sort of male she hadn't ever encountered up close in a very long time, and not as a sexual being.

Gene's chin settled in his chest, and he was apparently unconcerned at her lengthy examination. He finally spoke: "This Evan bloke. He's your godfather and your daughter's too?"

"Yes. He worked with my parents and was there for me when they died. There was no one else."

"Hardly sounds like a ringing endorsement for a father."

"He could never replace my father." She sat up, moving away from his hand. "He's not that sort of person—"

"He never married?"

Alex gave a nervous smile. "No. He's been very busy—"

"For thirty years? What, he's defending Jack the Ripper?"

"He doesn't practise law anymore. Taking care of a little girl on his own...It just wasn't practical. So he managed my parents' estate. That led to more management clients...He's been very successful."

"Yeah, what's the flat worth?" Gene pouted. "Five hundred thousand?"

She laughed. "More like three million!"

He choked on his wine. "Bloody Nora!" Recovering, he pointed out, "That's a lot of management, luv. What sort of fees is he charging you?"

"I'm sure he's not..." She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It's not really anything that concerns me."

"I don't know anything about money," he conceded. "I do know about scumbags. You've got one getting in your head, trying to run you off this case."

She raised her chin, ready to protest.

"But that's not gonna happen." He shifted to sit up, his face intense. "You're the toughest bird I've ever met, and that even means my ol' granny. You're not goin' anywhere. I'm here to see to that."

Alex's mouth gaped open. _He _was going to see it didn't happen? Since when did she need a man to charge in on his white steed and save her?

"I appreciate the sentiment-" she started, sarcastic, only to have him interrupt.

"No you don't. Of course you don't. Admitting you need help isn't your strongest point."

There it was again; how he seemed to know her better than the anyone else on her team already. How could that be? He'd carried out his own research on her before coming down to London? Paradoxically, considering her own efforts to investigate Sam's Guv, that didn't sit well with her.

She eased away across the cushions. "I fully intend to identify this Angel Killer-"

"_We _are," he stressed. "We're a team on this."

"We _hope_," she corrected him. "Only TV detectives solve every crime. And even then, we don't see the trial dragging out for years, only to have the killer get off with a plea bargain."

"You need more faith, woman," he snorted. "Separately, we're damn good coppers. Together, we'll grab this tosser by the short hairs and drag 'im into the nick."

It was odd. After all, he had been so young when the original murders had taken place, his memories should now be foggy, and yet he was storming through the case with such authority. His attitude was seductive, pulling her in like a riptide. Her limbs shook and her breath quickened.

She'd had a construct in her mind created by Sam Tyler, but this was another man altogether. The shadows fell away as though the lights had been suddenly flicked on full strength and she saw Gene, truly saw him. The lamp's glow caught in his fair hair. The dark ring around his blue irises, reflecting the indigo of his dark tie. The glint of golden stubble that he missed on his jaw in his morning shave. The cleft in his chin; the broad plane of his strong skull. She could be lost in this discovery, and hide from all the unknown outside her front door.

Calculations happened so fast as to make her light-headed. He'd be gone in a few weeks, and surely wasn't the sort of man to even bother with a call in two months to make sure a tart wasn't up in the duff. Gene was exactly what she needed right now, that cowboy who would shag her there on the couch, fast and hard enough to drive away all this case's fear and anxiety.

The moment passed to the next. His hand shifted to nearly touch her shoulder. She could barely speak above a whisper, despite all the bold and crazy thoughts darting through her mind. "Gene."

His gaze was fixed on her mouth, but he didn't make a move. She placed her glass on the table, an action which happened to shift her closer to him.

He remained frozen. She glanced up. "Gene?" she said again. Mercifully, he finally touched her, the lightest of fingertips grazing on her wrist, but he might as well have grabbed her breasts for the way it made her gasp.

"I know," he said and leant in to meet her lips.

She watched his slow descent, keeping her eyes open. She wasn't going to close her eyes until he did, but his gaze remained steady with hers, the colour shifting from blue to quicksilver. But then he stopped, his eyes narrowing, ever the cool gunslinger. She was going to have to make the final step. She swayed forwards—

He stood abruptly, muttering something about topping up and snatching a fag before hitting the hay.

He'd just said that he'd known! What had he known if it wasn't exactly what each of them needed—a mindless shag? She leapt up, stretching to her full height to face his obvious rejection. He rubbed his temple and ran his fingers through his hair. It seemed that her come-on had triggered the old male gem of a headache.

Covering her humiliation with fury, she poked his chest. "Listen you—"

But Gene didn't listen. His eyes rolled back, and before she could get another word out, he fell into her, not in some passionate embrace, but slack. She staggered awkwardly under his heavy weight, his spiralling body forcing her to the floor in a uncomfortable tangle of arms and legs. She twisted her neck, trying to see what was wrong with him. He struggled to raise his head before he passed out completely, slumping over Alex. The stench of fresh blood filled her nose. Warm stickiness slid down her cheek. Fighting out from under him, she shifted him on his back. She saw blood oozing from his hairline, just as it had the day she'd first encountered him.

"Gene!" she cried out, but there was no response.

~end chapter eight

E/N: Yes, we are bitches!


	9. Chapter 9

The world is softly sleeping while your fears are in their keeping.

Their eyes are open but they slumber, shifting limbs through the station tunnels, grey-faced every one. All but her. Hair alight with the celestial fire, bright eyes looking for something...

Another light-filled head following, pale eyes scanning, watching, passing right over...

Easy to be missed. Stinking copper thought he knew what he was looking for but it's not you.

Where is she? Down the tunnel, too far ahead to reach. Light as a white feather, she will float to heaven and carry you too. Some of them just half your age.

The copper leant on the rail, watching the world wash under him, his black shroud hiding all but his vigilant expression. Best to stay in the shadows and wait.

Fools like us are always dreaming. It's better if you try to stop remembering.

* * *

Holding a towel to his bleeding head, Gene banged through the incident room's doors with Alex is hot pursuit. The lights flicked on automatically, revealing the empty, stale room with its cluttered desks.

"I really think we should have gone to A&amp;E," Alex said fretfully.

He only snorted with derision and stormed to his desk, then stabbed at the computer's keyboard, trying to wake up the device. He'd see Tabitha do this a dozen times, why wasn't it working for him?

He shot a quick look at Alex from under the towel. He'd come to with her cradling his bleeding head and stretching for her phone. He hadn't had time for her fussing. "We haven't found the fourth girl," he'd announced, struggling free, only to collapse again in a great crash of sprawling limbs. But he was still able to bat away her grasping hands and ignore her fretting. After collecting the towel for his head, he ordered her to call Tabitha and Dave Ritchie and tell them to meet up at the Yard.

The computer finally lit up. Triumphant, he dropped into his chair and tossed the towel in the bin. The bleeding had stopped.

Alex was still nattering behind him: "Gene, you're hurt—"

"Just an old wound opened up, that's all," he'd said, cutting her off. "I remembered there's another victim in 1985."

"You just remembered, after thirty years? That's why I'm worried, Gene—"

He only snorted in disgust and muttered something about not treating him like a poofter, but before she could start to nag Gene again, the other two detectives arrived.

"Tabby," he barked, "you missed one. There's another girl."

The constable looked to Alex for guidance. She gave a shake of her head in return. "Help him, DC James," she said softly.

Tabitha put on a smile and sat at her desk before the computer. "Let me see what I can find. What do we know?"

Gene closed his eyes. Falling, the train coming. Barely above a whisper, he said that.

When Alex touched him, he flinched.

"Please, Gene...DCI Hunt, I think we should take you to a doctor."

"I don't need a bloody doctor!" he bellowed. "I need to get this flaming bastard!"

Alex took the seat across from him and leant forward with her elbows propped on her knees. "You fell off a train when you arrived in London last week—"

"No. Yes." He pouted.

"But you've remembered something from 1985?"

"Yes. Before I left...London."

Accessing the database, Tabitha prompted him gently. "Date?"

"Around...June."

"Euston station, right?"

"Yes." Gene rubbed his head and flecks of dried blood fell to his shoulder. Alex reached over and carefully brushed them off, her brow still creased with anxiety.

"I'd been watching the stations. Had me snouts keeping an eye out too. One came and told me he'd seen a girl heading into a closed tunnel with a bloke wearing black. I followed. Found him...Girl out cold...Might o' been dead already, I 'pose."

Alex could see that Gene was back in that moment. She kept her voice low so not to startle him out of his memories. "Could you see what he looked like?"

"Too dark. I jumped him...We both went over..."

"I have something," Tabitha said with excitement. Gene rolled his chair across to her desk. Alex followed closely. Even Ritchie leant over.

Alex lost her breath when she saw the grainy photograph on the monitor. The sprawled body in a black uniform, pale hair haloed around a crushed skull. The fleeting images from her dreams...

"It's some poor transport constable who tumbled onto the tracks," sneered Ritchie. "Not a girl."

Gene launched out of his chair. "Son of a bitch," he roared. "A copper. A bleeding copper."

Alex tried to stop him from pacing. "Is that the man who you tried to apprehend?"

Still raving, he ignored her. "A plod would have been the perfect cover to get these girls. They'd trust him, go with him." He thumped his fist on the desk, causing all three to jump. "If 'is head wasn't already cracked open, I'd stomp on it like a brat's toys."

Trying to refocus his fury, Alex said soothingly, "But it was an accident."

"We went over together," he insisted.

"The report doesn't say anything about another policeman," Tabitha pointed out.

"Keep looking," muttered Gene, flopping back into his chair. "There was a girl."

Alex squeezed his shoulder and this time he didn't move away. "Look on the same day, James," she said quietly. Gene gave her one of his quick smiles.

Two minutes later, Tabitha discovered what she was looking for. "Julie Ware, eighteen, three arrests for prostitution. Found in an alley to the west of Euston Station. Stabbed to death. Signs of struggle and she'd probably marked her killer."

Keeping Gene in his chair with a warning look, Alex paced for both of them. "Body wasn't mutilated?"

"No."

Leaning down to speak in his ear, Alex said softly: "It could be nothing, Gene."

"It's 'im, Alex." He tipped his head up to look at her. Her heartbeat hitched at his intense gaze. "It's him," he repeated.

"Alright," she murmured. To the other two detectives, she said, "Find out everything you can about this BTP constable. Any living relatives, wife, coworkers."

"But if he's dead," drawled Ritchie, "it's unlikely that he's our killer."

Gene's eyes drifted shut again, exhaustion overwhelming him. Not a sleepiness but as though he were losing consciousness once more. Someone...something...was watching him from the shadows. The man who he'd knocked off the girl wasn't the real danger. That toerag was just a tool—

"Gene?" Alex's fingers were brushing at the cut on his head. "Are you still with us?"

"I'm not goin' anywhere," but he knew that he didn't sound convincing.

"Dave's right, though," she pointed out.

"There was someone else there," he said, his voice distance. "He didn't work alone."

Alex started to protest but instead, tugged Gene's arm. "Come on. I'm getting you home and to bed." She shot Ritchie a warning look over Gene's shoulder before he could make a smart remark.

"We've got work to do," protested Gene, struggling to his feet.

Looking at the clock, Alex said, "It's the middle of the night. Even if we find witnesses, we can't contact them now." Laying her hands on his chest, she made him look her in the eyes. "Sleep. Rest. And we start again in a few hours."

His head fell forwards and she was afraid that he would collapse again but instead, he leant into her for the briefest of moments. "Alright, Bo—Alex," he said in a sleepy bear voice and it took all her willpower not to wrap her arms around him and squeeze him tightly.

oOo

Four hours of sleep, a hot shower, eggs, toast and strong tea for Gene, coffee and yoghurt for Alex, and they were out the door. When they arrived at the incident room, they found Tabitha gulping down the dregs out of a paper cup herself. Still wearing the same clothes as when they left her, it was obvious she'd remained at work. Her eyes were glassy with no sleep and too much caffeine.

"I have some information," she told them.

Alex brought the rest of the team around and gave them a quick rundown of last night's events as Gene waited impatiently.

"What've you got, Tabs?" he barked finally, cutting Alex off.

"The first victim was police constable Harold Potts, aged thirty-one, eight year veteran of the BTP. Struck by a train which had been diverted into the disused track to clear the way for another train."

"Get on with it," Gene growled. Alex gave him a withering look as Tabitha wilted a bit under his glare.

"I think this is important," Alex said. "Go on, James."

"What was noted in the internal report was that his shift had ended two hours previous. There was no reason for him to still be in the station; his flat was within walking distance."

Gene nodded, more pleased with this background detail. "Got a missus? Kiddies?"

"His wife had died a year before—"

"Just before the killings started," mused Gene. Alex hid a small smile. He couldn't help but profile the killer.

"There was one son, Nigel Potts."

"Age?" Gene asked quickly.

"Just ten years old," Tabitha said after scanning the records.

Welton sipped his tea. "He's out then. Perhaps a mate?"

Gene made eye contact with everyone, drawing them into a circle around him. "The real work begins today. This Harry Potts was my killer. Somehow, he's connected to the killer working today. Another copper friend, a mate from down to the boozer, a creepy brother—someone."

Alex tried to interrupt, but he held up his hand. "Start going through the rolls and find his work mates. Find his kid and talk to him. This girl, Julie Ware—we need to find anything that we can about her death."

"Yes, Guv," everyone muttered except Alex. She was watching him, arms crossed.

"How's your head?" she asked when the others went off to the desks.

"Better, now that I know who the scumbag is," he said, going to the tea cart.

"All that caffeine won't help your head," she pointed out, lacking for anything else to berate him about at the moment.

He only gave her an outraged look as he dumped sugar into the cup.

"I'll go call Molly before her classes start," Alex said.

He surprised her by saying, "Give 'er my regards."

Smiling at Gene's use of such an old-fashioned term, she made her way into her office. Although...she snapped her head around, and sure enough, he'd been watching her arse. Last night returned with an embarrassing flash, and she quickly shut her door before he could see her red face.

Caught ogling, Gene feigned interest in the evidence board. Confusion washing over him, he excused himself to go up on the roof for a smoke with his tea, managing to duck out before Donna could offer to join him. He needed time to think without some bird yapping at him.

It was raining lightly, so he sheltered under the lee of a large air duct and sucked deeply on his fag. Draining his paper cup, he balled it up and tossed it aside while looking out over the city. Low, grey clouds, the scene a glistening monochrome. This was the London he remembered. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his head. It was still sore. Like when his Dad would cuff him proper for taking the last Garibaldi. Alex Drake's cherry mouth had been just as tempting.

But the Chief Super wouldn't be ringing up anymore, demanding that Gene keep his mind on his job and not that posh tart's scrawny hind end. If Gene wanted to finally have some fun, he should. Squaring his shoulders, he mentally gave himself a sharp slap, just as hard as his Dad's.

This Alex had surprised him, that's all, causing him to have a spell. Back in the 1980's, his Alex had just come onto him as a lark, not thinking he was real. Only to want him at the end when she knew he wasn't real...That woman truly was a fruitcake.

He lit a cigarillo off his smoke and tossed its butt away. This Alex had been after information, but he didn't take her for a slapper. She wouldn't have given him a kiss and a cuddle just to find out if Sam Tyler was a complete nutter.

So...perhaps she was interested. Yes, he was fairly certain that she might give him a flyer with a bit of encouragement.

Somewhere in the dim recesses of his scrambling thoughts, he knew that he'd need to make the next move. She'd been shooting him uncertain looks ever since he'd come to. A move...a move...what sort of move should he make?

That damn mobile in his pocket rang. He dug it out, cursing as he fumbled to press the correct button to answer the thing. "Wot?" he growled.

"DI Drake wants you," said Donna, not the least bit put off by his grumpiness.

Well, if he were looking for a sign, that was it. He ground his cigar under his heel, and headed back to the incident room.

Pacing in front of the evidence boards, Alex had her fists clenched in her pockets. Just when she thought that she'd gotten past it, another wave of mortification washed over her. Although she'd been absolutely terrified when Gene had lost consciousness, she was also grateful that they'd been deterred from doing anything that she'd regret. What in the world had she been thinking? Gene Hunt wasn't her type at all, and if they'd gone through with it, then she would have had this great lump in her daughter's bed, expecting another round—she'd need to check with Mr Nettles as to the progress on the garden flat's repairs.

The only logical explanation was that she was horny. How long had it been since she had sex? If she had to ask, too long. Well, she might as well take care of that problem, and not with a visiting detective while they were embroiled in a serious case. Someone less complicated was in order...

Welton had been speaking to her. She hadn't heard a world that he said. "Sorry, Rob, but I've got to make a call," she said vaguely, leaving him looking after her, puzzled.

She closed the door to her office. Sitting at her desk, she punched a number on her mobile while watching for Gene to appear from her summonses.

The call connected. She got right to the point. "Hi, it's Alex. Are you free tonight?"

Gene returned, shaking off his wet overcoat and hanging it to dry. He looked around for Alex, an automatic gesture, but she was in her office, talking on her mobile. Catching her eye, he gave a quick smile but she turned in her chair as though she hadn't seen him.

He went back to checking the murder scenes photographs on the evidence boards until he heard her office door open. She was caught by Ritchie before she could come to him, and he waited impatiently.

When Alex was finally free, Gene sidled up to her. "Right. It's my turn to pick up the takeaway tonight." His heart thundered in his chest.

She glanced to him. "Um...Actually, I have plans. You'll be on your own." She tried to sound casual.

He gaped. "Plans?"

"Yes." She had to clear her throat. "I'll be in late. No need to wait up." There. That wasn't difficult. She scurried off to her office before he could say anything more.

Gene stormed back to his desk and tossed himself into the chair. Glaring at Alex through the windows, he got no satisfaction. She seemed to have found something utterly fascinating in the folders on her desk and was studying it closely.

Taking her lead, he flipped through files, blind to anything on the page. When Tabitha passed, he called her over.

"Listen Tabs, we've got a situation."

She was instantly alert. "Guv?"

"DI Drake is in danger."

The young constable looked concerned.

"She's going somewhere after work, but doesn't think that she needs protection. She's given me the flick when I try to get it out of her."

"Well, if she think that she's fine—"

"She doesn't understand how serious this is." Gene leant close, his gaze holding the young woman's. "Spends all her time riding a desk chair; she doesn't get it. How some scumbag is going to plug her right in the head like putting down a dog."

"Sir—"

"Go in there. Say we're expecting a call back on 'arry Potts's kid or some other bollocks, and we need to know where to find her."

Tabitha looked unsure, but did as he said. Gene watched with satisfaction as she entered her DI's office.

Alex was picking a staple loose from a sheaf of papers, so intent on her task that she didn't notice the detective constable until Tabitha said her name. She jumped.

"Yes, James? What can I help you with?" she said breathlessly, pushing aside the folder.

"Uh...so we're still awaiting the location of the Potts son, if he's still alive."

Alex nodded.

"I'm hopeful we'll have something in the next few hours. You'll want to know immediately?"

"Yes, I suppose so," Alex said slowly. Time was of the essence on this case.

"I'll need contact info for you then."

"You have my mobile number."

"Mobiles don't always work," Tabitha said quickly. "Like if you're at the opera, or such."

"I shan't be at the opera..." Alex thought about it. The younger woman was right, and it wasn't as though she was saying _I'm getting shagged tonight _just by giving out a number.

She scribbled the number of the pub and Adrian's number on a notepad. "If it's very late, or early tomorrow, I'm sure I'll be home," she said lamely, tearing the piece of paper off. Okay, that did sound like she was getting shagged.

Tabitha just gave her a bland smile. "Great. Enjoy your evening and don't worry about a thing."

Gene watched the constable leave Alex's office. Tabitha made her way to her desk and started checking something on that bloody computer. Frustrated, he stormed to the evidence board and looked over the photographs once again. He could have sworn that Lola Burns had been wearing a white jumper when he found her body, but in the photograph, she wore a white leather jacket like Bolly's...

"Sir," hissed Tabitha. She'd appeared at his side.

"Wot."

"The Brass Farthing."

He pouted. "Wot about it."

"It's the pub where DI Drake will be after work. Posh place in Soho."

He narrowed his eyes in the direction of Alex's office. Now she was pounding on her own computer keyboard and not looking his way.

"How about the squad go there for a couple of rounds after the shift?" he suggested.

"I don't know, sir—"

"That's an order, Tabs."

"Yes, sir," she said, but her voice was filled with dread.

oOo

Despite all their efforts, the day had proved fruitless. There were a few pensioners who'd worked with Harry Potts, but were scattered around the country in retirement villages and spare rooms with their daughters. A list was compiled and assigned to detectives, but nothing had come in yet. And still no sign of Nigel Potts. Alex gave everyone release promptly at five.

As they straggled out, she slipped into the ladies with a few items tucked in a bag. She'd prefer that her team and particularly Gene Hunt, not see her transformation. She wasn't exactly tarting herself up, but she didn't need any embarrassing questions. Her trousers were swapped out for a black pencil skirt, and a button or two more than work-appropriate were left open on her blouse after changing her bra from a sensible white spandex to pale blue satin. Her sturdy boots were exchanged for leather pumps.

Brushing and twisting her hair into a chignon, a splash of red lipstick, and her entire effort was complete. It wasn't as though it was a real date, after all.

An hour later, as she sat across from Adrian in the Brass Farthing, she was reminded again that this wasn't a real date. He was making no effort to charm her...Not that Gene Hunt had done anything the least bit charming either—not that this was about Gene Hunt!

Adrian chatted blandly about his upcoming business trip to India, how much he disliked that heat—she gave him a quick sympathetic smile and returned to her train of thought. No, Gene Hunt was no witty conversationalist...Although, the very fact that she'd have no idea what he'd say next kept her constantly intrigued. The image of his former wife knitting tiny woolly jumpers for a shivering little dog came to her, and she had to stifle laughter just as Adrian was saying something about his tummy distress during his previous trip to India. Then there was how Gene said things as flip comments, but they were actually filled with pathos, making her want to know more.

Had he and the missus wanted children? Did she displace her need with the Chihuahua? What had Gene wanted? He was surprisingly comfortable with Molly, avoiding that fatal tendency to try to be the child's friend. Adrian had done that the one time he'd met Molly. He'd offered to get her tickets for the Spice Girls reunion tour, much to the girl's horror.

"I say, that chap is burning a hole right into the back of your head."

Alex jerked herself back to the table and Adrian. "Pardon?" she asked foggily.

He nodded to behind her. "He's by the poker machines. He's been staring at you the entire time."

A chill went through her body. Gene had been right. She shouldn't have come out alone with a threat over her head.

"Don't look at him," she ordered Adrian. She noticed there were mirrors on the wall behind him. "This man, what side of me is he on?" She had to snatch Adrian's hand before he could point.

"Your...left," he told her.

She focused in the mirror. Two bankers, intent in their discussion while drinking white wine...a gaggle of secretaries, gossiping over G&amp;T's...a mixed table, men and women...One of the men was glaring at her...Gene Hunt.

She whirled in her chair and glared back.

"It's nobody," she said tightly to Adrian. "Just ignore him."

Tabitha brought a round to the table, her face worried. "I really don't think this is a good idea," she said, stating the obvious.

Dave Ritchie craned his neck to see Alex's table. "Oh, I see who it is," he sneered.

"She's got a bloke," Gene said flatly. He drained half his pint glass. This had never occurred to him. She'd not mentioned a man while in his world, there was no photo on her desk, no prattling phone calls every evening—

"I don't know if I'd call him that," Ritchie said slyly.

Rob Welton sipped his pint delicately and avidly watched the team but didn't cast his gaze toward his boss.

"Hush, now, Dave," chided Donna. "She's your DI. Show some respect."

He ignored her. "That's her fuck buddy, that's what 'e is."

Gene thumped his empty pint glass down. "Wot?"

Ritchie tried again. "Friend with benefits. She calls 'im up when she needs 'er plumbing flushed." He gave an ugly laugh.

Gene glared at him. "That bloke is 'er fancy man?"

This caught Ritchie off guard. "Er..."

Donna leant over and put her hand on Gene's sleeve. "Listen, Guv—"

"I need another," Gene said abruptly, pushing back from the table. He went to the bar and demanded a lager, now.

"Pardon me for a moment," Alex said, standing abruptly. She didn't give Adrian a chance to say anything and stormed over to Gene.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed at him. He slowly turned his head as though he had had no idea that she was there.

"'aving a drink with the lads," he said, self-righteous. "Just what you should be doing, instead of..." He tilted his head toward Adrian.

"Well, I'm having a drink with a friend," she said haughtily.

"You should be buying the first round for your team," he repeated, sticking out his lower lip. "Not out swanning around with some wanker!"

"He is not some wanker—"

Gene wasn't listening. Turning around, he leant against bar, propped on his elbows. "I thought you were different, but no, just the same old Alex. Knickers flapping in the wind like me auntie's tea towels out in the line!"

She stepped close to poke him in the chest. "How dare you—"

"Alex?"

She snapped her head around. "What?!"

It was Adrian. "Sorry," she said, taking a breath. "I'm discussing our case with DCI Hunt. I'll just be another moment." She turned back, ready to make battle again.

"Alex," Adrian said quietly.

"What?" She didn't disguise her irritation.

Adrian nodded. She looked down. She was standing between Gene's sprawled open legs, just inches away from his body. She stepped back quickly and Gene pushed off the bar, keeping close. His gaze lazily proprietary, he looked Adrian up and down.

From his curled lip, Gene didn't think much of the shorter man in his black silk turtleneck and Calvin Klein jeans. "Adrian Meadows," Alex's escort said with a smile, ever the salesman. He offered his hand to be shaken.

Gene looked outraged at Adrian's name and his manicured hand. "You can get on back and finish your Shandy," he sneered. "Alex and I have something to sort out."

"No, I believe we're done," she growled. "Come along Adrian." Grasping his arm, she dragged him back to the table.

Gene's face was no longer angry but thoughtful. He pulled out his cigarettes.

From behind the bar, the publican said, "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no smoking."

"Bugger," Gene grumbled, heading for the back entrance.

Alex watched him go.

"Alex, darling, what on earth is that creature?"

"I told you. We work together."

"Surely I would remember if you had mentioned some modern day Andy Capp," Adrian said with a laugh.

She rose. "I'll only be a minute."

Gene leant against the brick wall, inhaling deeply. Unable to smoke regularly only made these fags taste better. At least this alley felt like the Soho he knew. Dank and musty, mournful love song drifting from the bar, neon light reflecting blue off the wet surfaces—he couldn't have done a better job himself at setting the scene for feeling like shit about a bird.

As if on cue, Alex banged through the door. "I'm not finished with you—"

He tossed away the cigarette. "Wot."

"Don't you 'wot' me," she said, using air quotes.

"And don't you wiggle your fingers at me," he demanded, stepping close.

She raised her chin and used her most posh accent. "Where were we? Oh yes, I believe you were calling me a slut—"

"If the loose elastic on yer knickers fits—"

"You know nothing about me—"

"I know you don't have any use for a man but as a lapdog or to ride 'is pole," he ranted, "You're a cold, stuck-up bitch—"

Balling her fist, she hit him hard in the nose, causing him to stagger backwards. Instantly contrite, she rushed to help. "I'm so sorry! No matter what you said, there's no reason for violence—"

He fished out a large white handkerchief and dabbed at his nose. When he saw no blood, he tucked it away. "No problem. Just was expecting a knock to the gob instead."

"I don't get you," she said, suddenly exhausted and weak. She leant against the wall, revelling in the stench of urine and stale cigarettes. She deserved this. Striking a superior officer...Bryan Ferry was coming out of the pub's jukebox, she realised vaguely. Why did he always seem to be singing when Gene Hunt made her feel like this?

"Nothing to get," Gene assured her. "I'm a simple man—"

Her temper flared again. "You're a man alright! A bloody man who gets to shag whomever _you_ want—Sam told me about you and women!"

Harsh blue light from the pub's blinking sign fell across his features, hiding his eyes from her. "That wasn't me. It was Sam's imagination, remember?"

She started to protest but stopped.

He eased a step closer. "If you were to create me, you'd make a different sort of man, right?"

She suddenly wanted to run but stayed rooted to the spot. He was so near that her vision lost focus and it was all just the now achingly familiar smell of him, the pulse of the neon in his scarred cheeks, the movement of his lips as they pursed.

"What sort of man would that be?" he murmured.

"A very nice man..."

"I don't think so."

Her breath caught. He was going to slam her against the brick wall and fuck her hard—she stepped back, leading him into the shadows.

His hands came up to her face. But instead of gripping her skull to the point of pain, his fingertips barely touched her jaw as though balancing a soap bubble, delicate and fragile. His thumb brushed on her lower lip, making her gasp. His mouth lowered slowly only to pass her lips and press against her cheekbone in a chaste kiss. Then another at the corner of her mouth, her chin...His fingers stroked at her face, turning her head so his lips could touch at her jumping pulse.

She wanted to demand more, to berate his teasing, just to get on with it, but she was immobilised by his tenderness. Strength drained from her limbs and she sagged against him, only able to remain upright by clinging to his lapels.

"Alex," he breathed on her lips. His voice rasped like the shifting pebbles on a shore, turned by waves.

She tried to catch his mouth and only managed to nip at his lower lip with a whine. It seemed she'd have to be the one to throw him against the skip and tear open his shirt, yank down his trousers—

"Alex," he whispered again and through the fog of arousal, she heard pain-filled sweetness and yearning. Her eyes snapped open. His gaze was gentle, warm deep blue in the dim light.

Imagine her own version of Gene Hunt... those eyes behind half-closed lids on a Sunday morning cuddle under the duvet, lightly travelling fingers burrowing under her sleep shirt, that whispering of her name, Alex biting her lower lip to keep quiet as his fingertips skimmed from the undersides of her breasts down her stomach, to dance at the elastic of her knickers, before sliding under... Knocking elbows at the sink, doing dishes, that voice growling out criticisms of her drying and stacking until she snapped his arse with the towel and he has to give retribution, pushing her against the worktop, soapy hands tangled in her hair... Her and Molly, singing along to an Adele concert on the telly while Gene watched from the couch, sprawled across the cushions, his bottle of lager nestled on his chest, his expression deeply satisfied at their silliness... a baby's cry rattling through the darkness, her nudging Gene. "It's your turn," which to him meant stumbling out of bed and returning to tuck the snuffling body between them. He'd helpfully flick her top open to release her breast and then promptly fall back to sleep...

It was like peering between curtains into someone else's life. Alex struggled free, terrified. She daren't be tempted because she was certain as to how it would end—she'd be hurt and alone.

"I better go," she whispered, staring at her feet. "We've a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"Yeah." Gene was wiping mouth as though trying to get a taste off it. She felt a bit ill at the sight.

She hurried to the ladies first, and the mirror told her what she feared. Her mascara was smeared—when had she cried? Her cheeks were flushed and her hair dishevelled. She tried to tidy up, but it was hopeless without her handbag. She was looking around helplessly when Tabitha popped her head in. "Ma'am?"

"I'll be just a minute," Alex said, trying to sound bright.

"Donna thought I should check and see if you needed a bit of help." Tabitha rummaged in her bag and offered a makeup wipe. "I'm afraid I have no comb," she said, pushing at her braids. Her face brightened as she continued to poke deeper in the bag. "Here's a band though. You can put it back."

"Thank you," Alex said, her voice wavering. She splashed cold water on her still flaming cheeks.

"Donna's going to take DCI Hunt home," the younger woman said helpfully, offering Alex a paper towel to dry her face.

Alex remembered that 'home' was her flat and her shoulders slumped.

Sure enough, when she returned to the pub, her work group was gone and Adrian was watching for her.

He stood as she approached the table. "Darling, what has been going on?"

She considered taking the coward's way out and claim a work emergency but didn't think that was fair. The whole point of a friend with benefits was honesty. "I hate that I dragged you out tonight, Adrian, but I really just want to go home."

"Of course," he said, pulling his coat off the back of his chair.

She put a hand on his chest. "I mean alone."

He looked in the direction of the table where Gene had been sitting. "Are you sure about that?"

She wasn't going to be that honest and share that Gene would actually be sleeping down the hall. "Yes, Adrian."

They walked out together. "I'm sorry that I wasted your time—"

"It was an interesting evening," Adrian said with the flash of humour Alex had found attractive about him when they'd first met. He waited for her to unlock her car, ever chivalrous. "Shall I lose your phone number from my mobile?"

"It's not like that," she assured him.

"How about this. If I don't hear from you in a month, I'll delete your number, no questions asked."

"I'm certain that I'll be calling," she said but even she could hear that she sounded unsure.

He gave her a kiss on her cheek and naturally she couldn't help but compare his dry caress to Gene's tenderness.

She sat in her car for a long time before starting the engine.

oOo

After Donna stopped her Mini in front of Alex's building, Gene pulled himself free from the low seat and lit a cigarette before going inside. Donna lit her own.

"Thanks for the lift," he said gruffly. He glanced down at her. Supposed that he should offer her some tea or something, but if he took her inside, she'd expect more, he assumed. He shifted on his feet.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Would you like to hear a bit of truth telling, Guv?"

"No."

"You're making a spectacle of yourself."

He gave a warning harrumph and dragged savagely on his fag.

She went on. "DI Drake keeps things in neat little compartments. Those boxes are locked tight too."

"Since there's no hope there, you're offering?" he asked rudely.

"God no! You're daft!" she said with a snort, but appeared unoffended.

Unrepentant, he grubbed out his cigarette.

"At least look like you're disappointed," she teased.

He pouted.

"I don't eat where I shit, thank you very much. And I certainly don't steal off the boss's plate," she said crisply. "You may not believe it, but I take my job seriously. We can't have this case fucked up because of you two with your calf eyes at each other, you got it?" She flicked her butt into the gutter.

"Yes, ma'am," he grumbled.

"Night," she tossed over her shoulder and he reflected sourly that he couldn't even pull an Essex slapper these days. He stomped up the stairs, slamming into Molly's room.

Down to his vest and underpants, Gene paced the small bedroom, ranting into the mobile phone's voice memo feature. "Bloody hell, now I've got to be watching out for gits sticking their peckers in. Need to show her that I'm the only bloke who can take care of her...What a load of bollocks about that Evan White and his concern for her...This murdering bastard, bringing disgrace on the force, offing tarts..." He tossed the mobile down. If anything, his thoughts were getting more scattered than cleared. Stupid idea—

God, he'd kissed her like some Jessie nancy boy; what the hell was wrong with him? He could see she was as revved up as the Quattro with a plate of meat pressing the accelerator to the floor.

Before his self-incriminations could get any further, he heard the building's outer door open below. He went to the door and listened...Not enough time to nip back to that woofter's flat for even a quick shag, so would there to be two sets of footfall?

Alex opened the front door with a rattle of the knob and jangled her keys before tossing them with a crash on the hall console. Was Donna flat on her back in Molly's bed? If Gene was shagging that tart in her daughter's bed...The light was on under the door, but there was silence from the room. She considered knocking to make sure that he was well after his head injury and her punch to his nose but instead, simply passed by and slammed the door to her room with a resounding thump.

Once he heard her door, Gene stuck his head out and listened for a bit. No sound of anyone besides Alex. Satisfied, he closed his door quietly.

~ end Chapter Nine


	10. Chapter 10

Red blood slides slowly down her arm until it pools in the bend of her elbow.

She closes her eyes, her lips forming fervent prayers she has never uttered up until this time, thinking such things were only for a conditioned soul. Now, the moral high ground she'd walked crumbles beneath her with the glimmer of a blade. Stabbing back just to get some fun.

His hands manipulate her into pose after pose. Is that better? He waltzes away to see if she would fly or fall. When will you make up your mind?

The sting of the blade stops her cries, but she continues with urgent whispers, begging for someone, anyone.

She tries to turn her head, the other must run, run for help, run for your life, run for mine. He just watches. He's but a conditioned soul.

She repeats her now near silent pleas. She needs an angel, Jesus, God. Hope to God… Angels can either fly or fall. Never fall into some killer's arms again.

Light bursts from above, the darkness of the tunnel momentarily ablaze with the moon and the stars in the sky. His voice drags across her roughly. Darling don't be afraid tonight.

A struggle, suspended in time until the question of flight or falling is answered. Her angel has fallen.

She tries to turn her head, the other must run, run for help, run for your life, run for mine. He just watches and waits and waits and watches. He's but a conditioned soul.

* * *

Alex woke to a pounding head, dry throat, and wobbly limbs as she stumbled straight to the shower. She was hungover all right, but it wasn't from those two white wines she'd had before Gene Hunt had shown up at the pub—it was that big bastard himself.

She turned the hot water up as high as it would go, desperate to wash away the sludge filling her skull.

Her night has been a jumble of anger, desire, and shame. Angry with Gene for making her so damn angry — angry enough to resort to physical violence — that she'd tossed and turned for hours, continuing their fight as an internal monologue. Desire...His gentle kisses, so easy to imagine them drifting down her naked body, lingering at her nipples before going further...Too many men settled in as though trying to inhale the Flake with the ice cream... But to have that soft whisper across her clit, for once to want and need more—

She lifted her face to the stinging spray, trying to burn away these warring emotions. Twisting off the taps, she acknowledged another one; shame with a bit of self-loathing tossed in there.

The truth was she'd been awake and waiting and watching for his entry. And waiting... And waiting...

She'd never been a reader of bodice ripping paperback romances, only glanced at their covers with derision, but perhaps those cheesy artists were onto something. Too many times during the night she'd had visions of Gene bursting into her room. Half-asleep, not quite awake, she tried to picture him. Cowboy? Sam had told her that Gene saw himself as some Wild West sheriff, so that could work—in chaps and cowboy hat. Or a Highland chieftain? She'd always had a thing for kilts. With windswept blond hair and his rough features, Gene would make a very passable Scotsman, intent on having his way with the infuriated English lady. She could play that part very well—

She'd gasped a weak laugh in the dark, hoping he couldn't hear her; wishing he'd hear her and come to investigate. Surely the sound of the sheets crackling as she tossed and turned was carrying through the walls—

Manc Lion, Sam had called him...Gene in rumpled khaki as a Kenyan plantation owner, she was in white linen, sweat pooling between her breasts in the equatorial heat...

"Get a grip, Alex," she admonished herself now, just like she had at each ridiculous scenario. She'd forced herself fully awake in the dark and had a stern one-sided chat. If Gene Hunt dared to bang through her door, she would sit up coldly and tell him to fuck off. She wasn't some cheap tart being served the Guv's very special 'search warrant'. She was his equal, deserving respect...She'd flopped back down on the bed and cursed him, herself, and the world in general, finally drifting into a fitful sleep.

She couldn't remember the specifics of her dreams, which was probably subconscious defence mechanism, she decided ruefully as she toweled her hair dry. Red sheets? Rolling in crimson fabric, feeling the weight of another body, reaching for him—it had to be a man.

But considering her body was still thrumming with arousal, apparently she couldn't even do a filthy dream right. Deciding this was somehow Gene's fault too, she brushed her head furiously as she blew dry her hair.

Needing to dress, she crossed the short distance back to her bedroom. She paused in the doorway to listen out for Gene now, in the cold light of day, her resolution firm. Other than the usual light traffic that ran past the front of the house, all seemed quiet.

"Good. Hope your head is ready to burst too, Gene Hunt," she hissed, childishly deciding to slam the door behind her and stomp around her room.

But as she emerged shortly afterwards, dressed, her hair messily tied up in a bun and a layer of mascara slapped on, there still seemed to be no reaction from her house guest.

Finally giving in, she moved down to hall to Molly's room. The door was ajar, and her heartbeat rising, she pushed it open with a croaking, "We need to go."

The room was empty. The bed was made up with Gene's usual military precision. The lads of Westlife smouldered at her from the tight duvet cover and Paddington Bear sat up against the headboard. Alex furrowed her brow. The odd thing was, Molly didn't sleep with that bear; she'd taken her favourite, a well-worn Eeyore, with her. Surely Gene wasn't...

Looking around, she wandered to the kitchen and found all clean and tidy. She peered out into the back garden. No telltale whiff of cigarette smoke wafted in or any other sign.

Frustrated, she went to the front door to gather her keys and bag. When she flicked on the light, she discovered a note propped up against her bag. A new wave of jealous anger washed over her as she read the message: _Later, caught a lift with Tabs_.

oOo

Pandemonium reigned when Alex arrived at the station. And in the middle of it, naturally, was the king of chaos, DCI Gene Hunt.

Alex had that same uncomfortable feeling she'd gotten as she'd read his note when she saw Tabitha, clipboard in hand, was fixed firmly by his side. Surrounding them was a group of old age pensioners, mostly men it seemed.

Various contraptions the elderly used as modes of transport — wheelchairs, walking frames, mobility scooters — obscured the view and jostled for parking spots along the office's windows. A few members of the ageing crowd had canes but she doubted they were needed as walking aids. Instead they being used to emphasise their opinions, waving them high or pointing towards each other or one of the police officers. Gene almost copped one in the back of his head, causing him to spin around, his tone clearly belligerent even though she could only catch a few out of context words. Out of context, because, surely, she didn't hear him tell that elderly man his breath smelt like he ate from a skip.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked Donna as the other detective strode past, gripping her own clipboard. She had to raise her voice a few decibels to ensure she was heard over the yelling. Apparently everyone gathered was hard of hearing.

"We're interviewing rail employees, ma'am. Ones who might have known Potts."

"What? Here? We couldn't have sent a couple of uniforms round to their places of residence?" Alex asked weakly, raising a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to stop the pain that continued to pulse there.

"The Guv thought it best. To ensure they all understood the gravity of the situation. We were getting nowhere with any of them using the usual method."

The usual method? Door knocking? Interviewing potential witnesses separately? It all sounded much more efficient and peaceful than this alternative method.

Gene approached then, Tabitha and Welton in tow.

"There's more underwear that's on the nose and in need of changing here than in a maternity hospital's nursery," Gene announced unnecessarily, his features screwed up in disgust.

"Just what were you trying to achieve, DCI Hunt?" Alex bit out, actually glad they were both able to dispense with the usual morning pleasantries and get straight down to business.

"None of them would talk to the police. They're all of that generation that don't trust younger coppers. Think we're all bent." He looked quite offended at the idea. "Only way to get them to give us anything is to show them their sad little bungalows aren't that bad compared to where we could pop them in their twilight years."

"You've dragged them here to threaten them?" She shook her head, flabbergasted.

"Something like that," he said, obviously pleased with himself. "Don't look so horrified, Drake, we're not going to hurt the old codgers. We just need to find out who amongst them was friends with Potts. Your profile says the murderer is a loner, but the partner idea is the only thing that makes sense for our current killer.

Potts was one of the younger employees, so these are all the ones who are still kicking, still living in London and—" He raised a skeptical eyebrow— "claim they've still got their marbles."

She glanced over his shoulder at the rabble and then up at Gene. He seemed to think that the situation was completely normal; his explanation rational. Perhaps she just needed to pop a painkiller for her headache...

"Can you get me a list, Tabs?" He waved towards a computer. "Of which of these fogies we've banged up in the past. Pervs, wife or whore beaters, gamblers. I bet we got a couple of everything here. Any personality traits that suggest a kinky killer."

"We can enter the identifications they provide us with today onto our database," Tabitha said crisply as she sat at her desk. "Then, we can ask for a match on anyone with any record from a criminal conviction to a parking ticket."

He gave a quick smile. "And while you're about it, get me a tea, five sugars. That's a love."

Tabitha laughed and hopped back up. "No problem."

Alex watched as Tabitha obediently scurried off to the tea room and Gene waded into the fray once more. Apparently no further discussion with their team leader was deemed necessary by either DCI Hunt or DC James. Fuming, Alex stomped back to her office.

An hour or so later, after washing down a couple of the needed painkillers with copious amounts of coffee, Alex felt awake enough to dare open her office door again.

The ex-rail employees were still being interviewed. Some had swapped their mobility devices for the office's swivel chairs and were rolling up and around desks, playing some sort of indoor football game using a wastepaper bin as a ball.

She noticed the slight scent of urine caught in the building's recycled air. Damn Gene Hunt for pointing that out.

Tabitha stood to cross the incident room. "DC James," Alex called out, "may I speak to you for a moment?"

The younger woman shot Gene a worried look over her shoulder as she joined Alex. He gave her a reassuring nod back.

"Take a seat," Alex offered as she went around the desk. The younger woman perched on a chair.

Peaking her fingertips, Alex smiled reassuring at her. "I just wanted to say that I appreciate all the extra work that you've been doing in the last week—"

"I'm happy to do it," Tabitha rushed to say.

"I'm sure." Alex thought of how to phrase what she needed to say. "I just wanted to assure you that although I'm sure DCI Hunt needs your help with some things, that it's not necessary for you to be doing all his clerical tasks or simple internet searches. He's a grown man and decades long member of the force." She had a head of steam going now. "He's fully capable of getting his own damn tea—"

Tabitha visibly relaxed. "Oh, that. It's no bother." She giggled, putting Alex's teeth on edge. "Truly, he's utterly hopeless; it's not an act."

"Then we should report this to his superiors," Alex said self-righteously. "He's got deficiencies—"

"It's not important," Tabitha said quickly, her humour gone. "He's not putting me out."

"But it's not right, Tabitha, can't you see that? To expect you to do it because you're a woman—"

"It's not like that, DI Drake. I'm sure it must look that way to you, as an older officer—" Tabitha said artlessly. "It's just that he reminds me of one of my old Brixton uncles with his grumbling, and his belly straining his waistcoats, and fag ash on his sleeve." Suddenly emotional, the young woman took a deep breath, but when she spoke again, her voice still quavered. "I can feel rather out of place here sometimes." Alex started to protest, but she pressed on. "He's my sort, that's all. It gives me a lift to lend him a hand."

"But—"

The young woman stood. "Is that all, DI Drake?" Her jaw was set.

Alex could only nod in defeat. She watched Tabitha return to her desk, obviously put out by their conversation as she slammed file folders around with jerky movements. Sure enough, Gene shifted over to the younger woman after shooting an indignant look Alex's direction.

Alex's jealousy wasn't rooted in a perceived romantic or sexual interest for Tabitha by Gene. As Tabitha had said, he treated her like some grumpy old uncle, and despite their vast differences beyond working class backgrounds, they'd developed a strong rapport. For all his taciturn manner, he had connected easily with all the team within a few days; they followed him without question.

While Alex had been working with them for months on this case, and yet felt no such connection. Over the years, she had told herself it was because she moved from assignment to assignment that she never had developed those sort of close professional relationships but perhaps she was looking at the question from the wrong direction. Did she not want to develop those relationships, so moved around the Yard?

Busy brooding, she didn't noticed that DCI Harper had entered her office.

"Alex?"

She pushed her hair out of her eyes. "Ma'am?"

Harper waved her hand. "What the bloody hell is going on out there?"

"DCI Hunt is exploring an avenue of inquiry." God, she sounded like some TV copper. Alex gave a pained smile.

"Well, I'm shutting him down." Harper folded her arms.

"What?"

"It's over. You've gotten everything that you need from him. We're sending him back to Manchester."

"But Ma'am, I think that he can still be a help to us. This case is vitally important—"

Harper turned on her heel and observed the chaos in the incident room. "He's gone," she said flatly. "Tell him."

Biting back her protests, Alex nodded.

As Harper left, the whole squad watched her progress out of the incident room. Alex came to her door again.

"Gene, a word."

He swaggered in, hands in pockets, and she nearly lost her nerve. This was going to be very difficult.

"Gene..."

"Yeah."

She spoke in a rush. "Let's have dinner tonight. Not some take-away, but a proper place with white tablecloths and all."

"What is this? The bird doing the asking?" He pouted. "Is it a Leap Year?"

"I don't know about the 'birds' you normally go around with, but I can do the asking."

He harrumphed and she feared that he'd say no. Then he shrugged. "Alright then, but I'll take over from here. Pick you up at six."

"Pick me up?" She laughed. "Fine. I'll meet you by the front door."

He looked her up and down. "An' wear something slutt—" His face fell. "Nevermind."

She took offence and swept her hands down her shapeless suit. "This is for work. I can dress properly for dinner at..." She raised her eyebrows.

He pushed out his lips again. "It's a surprise."

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be surprised," she said with a smirk.

His hands still in his pockets, Gene strode back out into the incident room. The rest of the squad were hard at work. He leant on Donna's desk and grunted.

She scrolled down her monitor screen.

He sighed heavily.

She flipped through a folder.

"Oi," he growled.

"DCI Hunt, can I help you?" Donna asked, glancing up with exaggerated surprise on her face as though just seeing him there.

He harrumphed. "You're a bird."

"Yes..."

"DI Drake is a bird—"

Donna swivelled her chair to face him and folded her arms. "Yes."

"Dinner. Tonight. Need some posh squat to take her."

"I see." Donna fought laughter. "Definitely need something upmarket," she mused, "let me think..."

Her gaze fell on Ritchie. "Dave may be able to help—"

"That tosser?" protested Gene, but she'd already motioned Ritchie over. The other detective swatted aside various cantankerous pensioners to join them.

"Dave, don't you have a mate who works security for that toff's supper club on the river?"

"Yeah," he grumbled.

Donna wasn't dissuaded. "You're in the funny handshake brigade with him, aren't you?" she asked knowingly.

Ritchie looked over his shoulder toward Alex's office. "Shut it."

Gene caught on quick. "You're a couple o' nipple wagglers, yeah?"

"What do you want?" Dave asked disagreeably.

"Can you get Gene a table for two there tonight?"

Dave leered. "For two, eh?"

Gene just shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. "Can you do it or not?" he muttered.

"Happy boss is a happy squad," Donna reminded Dave.

"It's the most exclusive place in London these days," Dave said. "I don't know what I can do."

"Make it happen," Gene said threateningly.

"It's expensive," Dave sneered.

Gene had been using that plastic card that he'd found in his wallet ever since he'd arrived in London and it hadn't been rejected yet. Seemed as though he could take it for one more ride tonight. "Not a problem," he said haughtily.

oOo

Alex called dibs on the shower first, then knocked on Molly's door before slipping back into her room. She stood before her wardrobe and flipped through the dresses—it had to be a dress—while chewing her lower lip. Her confidence of earlier in the day was gone. Black, black, heavy grey wool...had she ever owned something sexy, let alone slutty?

Not that she was going to do his bidding, particularly when it was such a sexist, misogynistic demand... Rather, it was a challenge. Just because she didn't prance around the Yard like some tart out of an ITV cop show, wearing a skintight skirt and silk blouse—how impractical!—didn't mean that she couldn't turn things up a notch for a date!

This black dress was sexy; worn once to a wedding of a friend soon after Peter had left her and she needed to feel good about herself. Sure enough, she's pulled a good-looking groomsman and enjoyed a one night stand with him on the strength of that scandalously low neckline. But it was horribly wrinkled and ten years out of date.

Desperate, she dug deeper. A flash of red... She flushed, remembering the only time she'd worn the dress. It had been one of those cases of any doubts dismissed by an aggressive saleswoman, only to see all of Alex's fears reflected back to her in the faces of the other guests at the police award banquet. To this day, male officers would give her a quick leer when meeting her again. "I remember you," they'd say.

So it certainly should get Gene Hunt's attention. The skirt was a bit too short, the neckline and back both dipped too low and the jersey fabric was too clingy for a Met gathering. But for dinner with a big talking, no action, frustrating git, well, it was perfect. Smirking at her reflection in the mirror, Alex smoothed the dress down, and moved onto putting on more makeup than he'd ever see on her. But she kept her hair simple; straight with a silver clasp at the back, letting a few tendrils hang free, hopefully for an artfully tousled look and not a mess. She didn't bother with stockings as she strapped on her high heeled sandals. Yes, Gene seemed like a suspender belt and black stockings sort of bloke, but she couldn't let him think that he was directing her. He was still getting a red satin set of a demi-cup bra and thong, if he could manage to summon the interest and remove her dress.

Draping a silver silk shawl across her shoulders and flipping her hair over it, she raised her chin and stormed out of her room as though to battle. Only to stumble at the sight of Gene and nearly tumble off her heels. He was leaning on the wall by the front door, turning his lighter in his hands, his gaze intent on the flashing gold. Of all things, he wore a tuxedo, the tie undone and hanging from the collar. It should have been utterly ridiculous yet he looked completely right, black and white and gold. She was suddenly grateful she'd made the effort that she had.

And when he spotted her and scowled awfully, she was foolishly pleased.

"That's a girl," he said softly.

"Don't be daft," she said briskly, finding her equilibrium.

"Be a love and do up my tie," he said with one of his pouts, and raising his chin.

Laying her hands on his chest, she started to fasten his shirt's top button but then tipped her head. "No, I think it's perfect just the way it is." She stepped back. What was that cologne...Paco Rabanne? Did they even make it anymore?

"Now who's daft," he replied but looked as pleased as she felt. He shrugged on his overcoat and actually held open the door for her, just like a real date.

He cajoled her out of the car keys as well. "Not gonna be driven around by a woman taking granddad on his day out," Gene protested. "Besides, I know where we're going and you don't."

She relented. It gave her the opportunity to examine him more out of the corner of her eye. "You actually brought a tuxedo to London, but not a pair of jeans? You are an odd one."

He only smiled as a reply.

Actually, Gene had been as surprised as she was when he discovered the black evening wear hanging in the cupboard between his suits and Molly's school uniforms. But then again, he was in a body that he had no idea where it had come from, so what did a suit's mysterious appearance matter?

He drove like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic at speed, yet was calm, his gloved hands relaxed on the wheel. Alex would expect such driving to be accompanied by temper and fury. She kept her jaw clenched, both to hold in her reproach and terror.

He mercifully slowed with a squeal of brakes. "The Lethe?" Alex said as he pulled up the valet parking station at a riverside dock. The Lethe was a floating supper club, one of the ventures for the celebrity chef Nigel Anthony. She'd heard about the excellent food and ambience, but had never been here.

When she told him that, he gave a quick pleased smile. Then she said just the wrong thing. "We'll have to split the bill," she insisted, knowing what the cost could be.

He scowled. "Don't worry," he said, turning the keys over to the valet. "You won't have to wash dishes at the end of the night."

She started to protest, but he only turned his back to light a cigarette. She wavered on her heels and tugged her shawl tighter. She really did suck at dating.

Turning her back as well, she looked at the converted barge, alight and glistening with bright enamel paint, the large shape reflecting on the black Thames. Live music wafted from the aft top deck. But instead of eager anticipation of the evening, anxiety rose. So far Gene hadn't responded to a simple _let's shag_ invitation. Of all things, it appeared that he required a bit of wooing. How exactly did she go about doing that, she wondered, twisting the narrow chain of her handbag.

His hand slipped under her shawl, finding the small of her back. His fingers spread wide, and his thumb brushed her bare spine. "Best get in before you have a chill," he rumbled in her ear. She looked at him, feeling as though her eyes were wide and dilated as a jaguar in the dark.

His little smile had returned and she decided that she'd been forgiven. She smiled back and wished that he'd kissed her.

They walked down the gangway, and into the dim reception area. At the maitre d station, a small bald man with a trim moustache, wearing a grey silk turtleneck and Armani jacket, waited.

Gene's face split with a shockingly bright grin. "Luigi!" he barked.

The little man looked surprised but then covered, making his expression solicitous. "Signor," he said warmly. "Welcome back?" He sounded unsure.

"Haven't been to this dump before," Gene said with a smirk. "Was at one of your other places. Years ago."

"Of course. Pardon my terrible memory," Luigi said smoothly. He gazed upon Alex with great appreciation. "Welcome to the Lethe."

"Table for two. Dark corner. Away from all this clatter," Gene said crisply.

Luigi was staring at Alex's chest. "Of course. Intimate. Very intimate."

Alex blushed. "It would be fun to sit near the kitchen," she suggested. As with most of Nigel Anthony's restaurants, the Lethe's kitchen was open and on display, flames shooting up from the grills, the embers glowing from a row of fire-fuelled ovens, the cooks yelling and banging behind a room-long counter. Waiters leaned over it, bellowing their orders. All deferred to the great man himself, his fair head the centre of the activity, his excellent dental work flashing as he barked orders, his starched coat with Nigel stitched on the chest, as though anyone needed to be told that this household name was him.

Gene observed all this with horror. "Bloody hell, if I want to have this sort o' racket with me supper, I'll go to my corner Chinky."

Luigi gave a little gasp and Alex winced. The maitre d recovered and swept out his arm towards a staircase. "You will want to be seated in the ballroom then."

"Ballroom..." Gene looked uncomfortable, but Alex stalked off after the maitre d and he was forced to follow. He took comfort in watching the familiar wiggle of her arse in a tight skirt and high heels. It was a great disappointment that she wore those workman boots during the day. He'd missed this.

Luigi brought them to a much quieter space, a large room full of small, candle-lit tables circling a dancefloor. Aside from a warmly lit stage at the far end where a small combo played, the room was dark. Gene and Alex followed the shorter man as he skirted the room to take them to the dimmest corner table.

"Lovely," Alex said, settling into the chair which Luigi held for her.

"Too right," grunted Gene taking his chair before Luigi could come around the table.

"Enjoy," Luigi said with a little bow. "You're waiter will be Chad," he announced, motioning forwards a young man with bleached and spiked hair tips.

Gene looked at him in disgust, but Alex simply accepted the menu. He could barely find a word that he understood, let alone could be food. Infusions? Foams? Sous-vide?

"Bloody Nora," he growled.

Her uncertainty gone, Alex took charge. "I believe the gentleman would like your best single malt Scotch and I'll have a glass of Pinot Grigio while we decide." She gave Gene a challenging arched eyebrow as he opened his mouth to grouse. He closed it and studied his menu.

"Any steak and chips on here?" he asked flippantly.

She started to berate him—this restaurant was his choice after all—then she realized that he was truly discomforted. Looking at the list of food, she said, "Yes, there is. Lombata di manzo con patate."

He squinted. "That'll do."

"Should we have starters?"

"Like a woman with an appetite," he said approvingly, "better have your pudding too. No bollocks about watching your arse. I'll be the one watching it, and it needs more heft to it."

Before she could possible respond, Chad arrived with their drinks. Scanning the menu again, she decided to have her revenge. She ordered everything that she knew would confound him.

An hour later, he licked the last of the snail porridge off the back of his spoon. "Christ on a bike, we've had six plates and I've barely filled me tank to the first line on the gauge. This here slug soup has nothing on a oxtail from the machine at Fenchurch."

Although Alex had to agree, she wasn't going to concede. "I found the spring pea foam to be brilliant—"

"I don't need food that's a university lecture. I need fuel—"

"Oh? Planning to exert yourself later?" she asked coyly, feeling he still needed to be prodded.

He revolved his Scotch glass two turns on the white tablecloth but before he could respond, Chad approached with the main course. "At last—" Then his face fell. "Bugger," he said woefully.

In the middle of his plate, three cubes of beef, the diameter of pound coins, balanced in a fine nest of shredded potatoes.

Alex burst out in giggles, holding her napkin to cover her mirth, but truly lost her breath at the affection in his gaze. She'd wanted desire from him tonight, but there was that unrecognisable expression that she'd seen from no man before. Whatever it meant, it both thrilled and frightened her.

"Tart," he murmured at her. "You deserve that." He nodded to her plate.

She looked down, and fresh peals of laughter erupted. A sliver of duck breast lay modestly in the middle of her plate, with smears and drops of a deep-red wine sauce radiating outward. Four baby multi-colored carrots formed a tiny tower to one side.

A voice spoke out of the darkness, breaking their jovial mood. "DCI Hunt and DI Drake?"

Alex was surprised at the way Gene's head snapped around and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes," he said coldly.

A hand outstretched, then a man stepped close enough to be seen. "Martin Summers. Dave Ritchie gave me a call about helping fellow coppers out."

"Summers," Gene said flatly, "of course." To Alex's puzzlement, he seemed almost angry.

"Have we met?" the man asked, equally confused. Alex judged Summers to a bit older than Gene, with sharp fox-like features and silver-ginger hair to match.

"You probably don't remember," Gene said. He stabbed one of the medallions of steak, chewed it only twice and then swallowed. "It was years ago. You were a constable."

"Gene was a constable at Fenchurch East," Alex said. "Were you too?" She nibbled her carrots and watched the two men with interest.

"Yes," said Summers shortly. "Can't say I remember you. Sorry."

"I wasn't that type of bloke you'd recall," Gene said and drained his Scotch. He signalled the hovering Chad for a refill.

Raising her eyebrows, Alex gave Gene a look. Somehow she didn't imagine him as the quiet retiring type, even as a young man. Her duck disappeared in two bites as she regarded him.

Summers only smiled. "In any case, I'm retired. All in the past—"

Gene snorted and ate another piece of meat in one chomp. "What do you do for this Anthony fellow?" he asked, taking the filled glass from the waiter.

"I provide security."

Gene looked around. "Hardly seems like the sort of setup that requires a strong arm to deal with the punters."

Summers' smile became strained. "I'm more of a consultant."

"A fixer?" suggested Alex cynically. She wasn't sure what was behind the intense glare that Gene was giving this man, but she'd come to trust him by now.

Summers tipped his head to them. "I'll leave you two to it then." He melted away into the darkness.

"Who was that man?" Alex immediately asked.

Gene scanned the room as best as he could in the dark. "Trouble," he said shortly. First Luigi—that seemed innocent enough. That poor little dago had to have come from some time and place and it looked as though it was here, but Summers...That man only meant one thing and it was danger.

"Tell me about your time as a constable. The 1980's were a tumultuous time for policing in London, particularly in the East End."

Pushing back his half-eaten plate, he looked at her as though she was bats. "I don't want to go on about that. Long time ago. A lot of water under the bridge."

Frustrated, Alex drained her wine glass but shook off Chad when he appeared at her side with the bottle to refill. She needed to stay sober or she may just belt this man again. She signalled Chad that he could clear their abandoned plates.

"Wot," said Gene after the waiter had left.

She looked at him, lit by candlelight. It gave him deep blue eyes and a golden halo, but also made his pout a dark slash on his face.

"You give me a headache."

He turned to watch the band as though unconcerned but said, "I mean it, Alex. It's for the best that you don't know about the past."

"The past is all I have," she said and instantly regretted it.

"A young woman like you? With a kid growing up before your eyes? How can you say that?"

"I meant that sometimes I feel a prisoner of my past," she explained.

"Oh bloody hell," he grunted.

"Thank you for dismissing my deepest feelings." Now she wished that she did have that wine. Or her car keys.

He wasn't going to play nice. "You're choosing to do that. Don't snivel into your tea about it. It's all of your making."

Outraged, she sputtered, "What, now you're taking over for my therapist?"

"Of course you have one," he said with a groan. "And a great job that bird is doing, if you're still this messed up, twenty-five years after your parents popped it."

Her head spun. "How do you know my therapist is a woman?"

His intense gaze bored into her. "No way you're talking to a man about your problems."

"I'm telling you, aren't I?"

"I'm different." He took a sip from his glass. "I'm the type of bloke that women just feel the need to pour their hearts out to."

She snorted. "I bet." She couldn't be angered any longer, only exasperated. All her life, she'd searched for the truth of her parents' deaths; the crime had never been solved. Perhaps Gene was right. For tonight, that sleeping dog could lay. She turned Gene's hand over and went to trace his lifeline but then gasped with laughter, "You don't have one."

He closed his fist around her fingers. "Old injury," he said.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she let calm carry away her turmoil. All that was left was an exhaustion as though she'd run ten miles, but then followed by the flush of energy that came when one hit the wall.

Surely surprising him, she started to chat about absolutely nothing. "Do you plan to attend any theatre while in London?"

He snorted. "Bloody hell, woman," he said with great affection.

She grinned at him. "A car show?"

His face lit. "Is there one on?"

"We could look at Time Out and see."

He seemed relieved that she was moving to easier topics. His wide shoulders relaxed. At some point, she would need to try to encircle that span with her own arms and see just how broad he was. She smiled again, softer, warmer, and he ducked his head like a school boy.

Yes, perhaps tonight.

Chad appeared again, hovering inquisitively. She ordered dessert and champagne and despite some deep growls, Gene didn't protest besides insisting, "Bottle of Bolly with our pudd."

Bollinger brand of champagne...Bolly, the woman that he was in love with, she suddenly realised. It wasn't his lost love's name, but a nickname, and he wanted to drink it with Alex. Was she bubbly where Alex was intense? Bright and blonde while Alex was dark and shadowed? But his fingers crept across the table to touch herself lightly, and she returned the caresses.

Instead of sweet nothings, he murmured, "If there's not a whole bleeding apple tart coming, we're going to have to stop at the corner chippy on the way back to yours."

Alex kept her expression enigmatic. If Gene Hunt thought she was going to be eating greasy fish and chips at midnight instead of shagging his brains out, he was more oblivious than she thought.

Sure enough, 'pudding' was an oyster shell with one spoonful of dark chocolate mousse in it, a single silver tapioca pearl balanced atop. Chad filled two flutes with champagne, she could only giggle at Gene's continued outrage.

"Wot," he said again, peeking at her from under those lashes.

"Nothing." Her pleasure was suddenly gone. She had remembered. "Gene."

He could see that she'd gone from light to dark. He hated when that happened. It could only mean a pain in his arse. "Yeah." Gulping, he emptied his champagne flute.

"DCI Harper has ended your secondment, effective today."

So that was all. He'd thought it was something serious. "No."

"I don't agree, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've strongly advocated for you—"

"You need me. I'm not going anywhere."

"It doesn't work like that, Gene. She can get your fired for insubordination—"

He only gave one of his quick smiles. "Not likely." He repeated, "You need me. "

"You have been a great help."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"It's just that…I can see that I become fixated on my profile. I never would have considered following up on the prior victims if you weren't here, creating a fuss."

"A fuss, eh?"

"You know what I mean."

"My decisive leadership?"

"Yeah, that." She fought a smile. A young black woman had joined the band and was singing Adele's _Don't You Remember_. Alex tipped her head, lost in the song for a moment.

Gene broke her trance. "I suppose you want to dance." It wasn't a question.

Actually, Alex hadn't even been thinking about it, but seeing Gene's obvious discomfort made her want to do this very much. She rose. "I'd love to," she said wickedly. "Thanks for asking."

He made one of his grumpy noises and unfolded from his chair with sulky reluctance.

At the edge of the dancefloor, she stepped into his arms. She thought perhaps he would only try for a stiff box step, but he wrapped his arms low around her waist, pulling her closer to him.

Suddenly weak, she tucked her head under his chin. His steady breathing stirred her hair and lulled her as much as the singer's raspy tones. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him snug to her. Yes, wide indeed.

The song wound down and he tried to step back. Alex gripped the back of his head and looked up into his worried eyes with steely resolve. He'd either need to kiss her or keep dancing, and when the band started a new song, he pulled her close again with a sigh of defeat.

The young singer, who looked barely old enough to drive, chose Simply Red's _Holding Back the Years_. Somehow her innocence made it even more poignant to Alex.

"I loved this song—I love this song," Alex whispered in his ear, oozing closer still. She was shameless, it seemed. His long legs meant their pelvises were sliding together; usually her legs were longer than any man she danced with. Possibilities flitted through her mind and her breathing hitched.

The way that his chest was rapidly rising and falling against her breasts suggested she was having a similar effect on him.

"Gene," she murmured.

"Could do with a spot of fresh air," he gasped. "And a fag. Dying for a fag."

In a daze, she went back to the table to fetch her wrap and bag and he tossed his credit card on the table.

Luigi materialised. He looked from Gene to Alex and his moustache twitched like a rabbit's nose. "Sir, I will get your receipt immediately."

"Keep it," said Gene vaguely, taking Alex's arm and leading her through the doorway to the boat's outer deck.

They strolled along the deck, moving away from the lights and other diners' chatter. The shadows wrapped around them and the sounds of the night and the Thames; the groan of ropes and wash of water on the hull, the distant churn of other motors. A fine rain misted over them. Gene stopped and leant on the railing. Not taking out his cigarettes, he turned his lighter in his long fingers once more, the gold winking, mesmerising Alex like a hypnotist's swinging watch.

"Well..." he muttered, "'spose we should head back—"

No, she couldn't wait. She grabbed the two ends of his tie, lacing the fabric through her fingers, and pulled his mouth to hers. He gasped, and she was able to capture his lips before he could close them.

The blue flash of a boat's light swung across them, black, white, then welcome darkness again. She stroked his tongue with hers and it electrified him. Strong arms around her waist, crushing her against him, teeth clashing until he found just the angle to enter her mouth and return her caresses until she was breathless. When she gasped for air, he took the opportunity to attack her neck, biting just hard enough to send shivers up her spine. She had to press in closer, needing his heat.

A great cat's growl; she covered his adam's apple with her mouth to capture the sound and sucked hard. Under his cologne, he smelled of wool, starch and Lifeboy soap. She wanted to eat him in big bites. Instead, she rubbed her cold nose on his throat, travelling from the rough skin under his jaw to his silken smooth collarbone.

In her ear, he was breathing like a train gaining speed. But when he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Bloody hell, Alex."

She could only manage a vague, "Yeah." Her hands left his tie to smooth along the fine cotton of his shirt. He tried to shift away from her. Balling the fabric in her fists, she kept him close and snatched his mouth back for another kiss.

Gene didn't know where to put his hands; it was just the first date after all. Everywhere he touched felt alive and a new danger. The bra closure did seem to be on the back and he couldn't stop his fingers from plucking at it. Lower was a dip of her back and drew her even closer, hips to hips. He couldn't have that happen...Lower still and his hands were full of her arse. Finally! Three years of staring, imagining, wondering, and his tongue stroked at hers in time with his hands squeezing the swell of muscle and softness...his thumb caught the hem of her short skirt and all was lost.

Bare thigh, his palm smoothing along her flank, still no knickers—his heart thundered; surely she could hear it? Outside/upstairs only was a lost promise when he spanned her naked arse, his seeking fingertips finally encountering a wisp of silk at the apex of her cheeks. He ran his thumb along it until he hooked the point of her hipbone. Gently circling the swell of her belly with his thumb's pad caused her to moan deeply. Her tits rose to meet his mouth and he was falling into the valley of silk skin, her musk swarming around his head. A second goal reached in mere seconds. Her glorious tits! Telling himself that it was technically still outside, he nosed aside the low neckline, tasting and nipping, the tip of his tongue finding the edge of her areola that tightened in response. He could hear himself whimpering like a puppy and couldn't do a bloody thing to stop.

"Fuck, Gene," she growled and he couldn't argue with the sentiment at all. Arching back in his arms, she slipped one leg between his and his eyes snapped open in terror. She'd captured his erection against his gut. Her thigh slid up and down his length and he had a sudden vision of a toad being squashed by a speeding lorry.

"Best not, luv," he managed to rasp. He dropped his face in the crook of her neck, resting his mouth on her jumping pulse and prayed she couldn't feel his tears on her heated skin.

"Yes," she said definitely, regaining her regal tone. "We really should head back to my flat. There's a bed there for one thing." In the dark, he could see the flash of her wicked grin.

"Oh," he said. "Right. Bed."

The missus, barely tall enough to fit under his arm, plump curves and big tits, the two of them squeezed in a double bed, night after night, slipping in and out of her body with a regularity of remembering to put out the milk bottles. Jackie Queen, defiant gaze staring him down even as she popped the buttons loose on her blouse. "You bastard," she hissed as she'd swung a leg over his thighs and hitched up her skirt. That crazy tart at the sex party with her mouth like a Hoover and a dildo as big as an elephant's trunk. Janette's white tits spilling out of a black bra in the back of the Quattro. "Guv'ner, what'll it take to make this all go away for me brother?" she'd asked as she pushed her jeans down...

None of them real.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Remember. Remember—

"Gene, is something wrong?" Alex sounded as though she was calling to him from the other bank of the Thames.

Morrison, his gape-toothed grin wide as he slapped Gene's shoulder. "My boy, to celebrate your first day on duty, you'll have your pick of the prossies in Elmsmere Road. Take one in a red dress. Nothing hotter than a tart in red!"

He'd felt cornered as he did now. "I dunno, sir. Don't want to get the clap."

"Son, I'll get you some French letters. We need to bust that cherry of yours. Can't call yourself a proper plod when the seal's not broken on the bottle!"

Gene had quickly looked around the station, hoping no one had heard his superior.

"Don't worry," Morrison had slurred. He'd been nipping from his flask all morning. "No one has to know. And it'll all be taken care of after your first shift. The Queen will be crowned and you too."

Stepping back from Alex, he looked her up and down. Her skirt was still hitched high, exposing bare legs for miles, pinned up on her tottering heels. The neckline was pulled low enough to spot the dark blush of her tight nipples. She was worrying her smudged lips with her teeth. The breeze caught her hair and lashed the damp tendrils to her flushed cheeks. Drop-dead sexy and he didn't have the first clue how to properly service her. Alex deserved to be ravished by Robert Mitchum and she'd gotten a dithering Danny Kaye. He was a flaming virgin.

There was a buzzing in his head. If it was the Super, reaching down to snatch Gene back to his world, away from this humiliation, he would serve faithfully and without another complaint for eternity.

It was his mobile. He wrenched it from his pocket. "Wot!" he bellowed into it.

"Sir, it's Tabitha."

He took a deep breath and watched Alex sort her clothing out slowly, her face mirroring his mortification. "Wot," he repeated, quieter.

"I've found Nigel Potts."

"It couldn't wait 'til the morning?" He saw hope light Alex's eyes.

"No, sir. He's there." Tabitha was bursting with excitement. "He's Nigel Anthony. You're at his restaurant."

~ End Chapter 10

E/N: And now you know what Aussie and I immediately thought at the conclusion of 3.8. Other viewers are having deep thinkie thoughts; we're concerned about Gene's sexual experience.


	11. Chapter 11

_Apologizes for the long break. No worries, we have this plotted out, know what we need to put down...Just need to find the time to put one word after the other. ARGH!_

* * *

The tunnel is now silent and her other senses take over. With no wind off the passing train, the humid heat contained in the tunnel closes in, accentuating the stench of her own bodily fluids. The red of her blood is still a stark contrast to her pale skin as it seeps from the wounds he's cut, but the flow is evidence enough that her heart still beats.

She rips at her skirt and wraps the flimsy material around and around, eventually curbing the flow with the makeshift bandage.

A rustling noise coming from the tracks shatters her calm. Looking inside herself, her mouth forms a scream, but she finds no will or strength to voice it. Then she sees. He and the angel are truly gone, truly dead, truly moved onto another place. This is the other now, searching along the track for some sign of life where there is no life. The train has been and gone. They are dead.

Her heart is still pumping, so the blood keeps flowing. She must move, step away, walk away, while she can.

After a quick perfunctory check of her legs, she stands shakily, one leg after another.

The flickering sign advertises her freedom. She's imagining police and paramedics and press.

Something turns her head backwards. The child is climbing, rising like a phoenix from the ashes.

_It should be you and me._

Step away, walk away. He's only a child.

_All I want is the real thing._

The serene expression he's sported up until now disappears. He falls to the ground, his small body stretching and moulding into the foetal position, rocking, back and forth. He's whispering silent prayers of suffering and beauty and disaster.

She stumbles towards the exit light, she must get to the stairs while her heart still beats, forcing every drop of blood from her body.

More red blurs her vision. Red to put out the fire that burns ironically red, red to warn others, red to bring others so she will no longer be so alone, red of her blood soaking the cheap cotton material, red dots swimming in front of her eyes, blurring her vision.

She breaks the glass, turns her head backwards, she's fallen down again.

* * *

"Oi," bellowed Gene over the high counter into the Lethe's kitchen. "You, Nige!" He pointed at the master chef in the center of the kitchen's flurried activities.

Alex wavered behind him, cursing her high heels. "Gene, I don't think—"

Nigel Anthony looked up slowly from the dish which he'd been preparing; arranging single black beans in careful circles around a cube of barely seared tuna.

Holding up his warrant card, Gene sneered, "You're coming with us."

Anthony went back to his work. "Fuck off," he said mildly as he critically examined the dish. He wiped away a speck of sauce from the plate's rim.

Barging around the counter, Gene roughly shoved aside the sous chefs who tried to stop him. "You're coming," he repeated.

Alex tried again. "DCI Hunt, we can arrange an interview for tomorrow—"

Before level heads could prevail, Gene grabbed at the chef's arm, and Nigel swung the plate at his head with lightning speed. Giving a snort of laughter, Gene twisted Nigel's wrist, flipping the other man around to press him face-down on the counter. Food and plates flew everywhere and the chef started to swear in a constant stream of profanity.

"That's assault of an officer, you bastard. You're nicked," Gene barked, yanking out a set of handcuffs to shackle Nigel.

Alex was momentarily intrigued that he chose to bring handcuffs on a date until she saw the flash of his weapon tucked at the back of his trousers as well. Had he intended this to be a date at all, or had he been on the job the whole time? A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her.

Her voice harsh, she scolded Gene. "This isn't necessary, DCI Hunt!"

He yanked Nigel upright and started to frog-march him towards the door through the room full of stunned diners.

As they passed Alex, Nigel managed to leer at her. "Nice," he murmured. Gene twisted the handcuffs chain to tighten the manacles.

Before heading down to the kitchen to nab Anthony, he'd told Tabitha to send a few pandas in case there was trouble. He'd pop this arrogant scumbag in the back of one. As he pushed Nigel down the gangplank, who'd now started demanding that his solicitor be called, a movement in the shadows caught Gene's attention. The flash of a watching face, the glean off a head of greasy curls, the dark slash of a sneering mouth. Gene tried to make out who the man was, but then he was gone.

"Gene!" Alex was at his shoulder, distracting him right before he could put a name to the face. "We can't do this!"

"Watch me," he said, motioning a uniformed constable to collect Anthony, then the aghast valet to bring around Alex's car. This done, he rooted in his pocket for his fags.

Wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders, Alex fumed. Gene lit his smoke, ignoring the familiar anger he could feel roiling off of Bolly...Tonight she had been _his_ Bolly. Tasty as a bowl of overripe cherries, with those soft toffee eyes melting as he leaned close to breathe in her skin. Warm, scented of sugar, much more delicious than anything this wanker had served up tonight—

Grinding the butt savagely under his heel, he glared at the chef who peered from the backseat of the police car. Another white circle with blurred features, a face that he knew. Family resemblance, that's all it was.

"Gene," from behind him. Alex sounded pissed off.

He held up his hand to silence her. The panda was driving away, but Anthony was still staring at Gene, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Like father, like son? But Harry Potts had bared his teeth as if a cornered rat when Gene caught him. This man was a snarling dog.

The valet pulled Alex's car up and Gene snagged the keys before she could. "Want to get there before dawn," he said. He was close to some bloody answers; he could feel it in his moldering bones.

o

While Anthony was being settled in an interview room, Alex hurried to her office and changed out of her dress. Wadding it into a ball, she dropped it on her chair, repulsed by it now. She'd never been good at this tart thing. Lesson learned, once more.

As she pulled on a pair of black trousers and tugged a dark jumper over her head, she raged with an internal monologue with everything she was going to say to Gene Hunt about his utterly unprofessional behavior. She didn't have a spare pair of boots, and was forced to put her silver high heeled sandals back on. Feeling at a disadvantage, she banged out of her office, wishing that she had some makeup remover as well.

Only to stumble on those heels when she caught sight of Gene leaning against the wall outside the interview room. He hadn't changed. His bow tie hung from his jacket pocket, his hair was ruffled from his fingers running through it, and his wide shoulders slumped. Her earlier desire returned in a flood. Apparently she wasn't able to pull off being a tart, but she was a slapper of the worse sort.

Infuriated with herself, she started right back in. "Hunt, you've done some crazy things since coming here, but this just takes it—"

"Hold it," he said, his voice quiet but taking no argument. He tipped his head. A shadow down the corridor caught her attention. It took form; a man in a dark overcoat—Martin Summers.

"Detective Inspector, a word," Summers said, ignoring Gene.

"Mr Anthony's solicitor has arrived?" Alex asked Gene. Work was a good place to hide from the tumultuous emotions this man generated.

He sniffed. "Yeah."

"We'll start the interview then," she said crisply. "The sooner we start, the sooner that he can go home," she told Summers. Although she didn't agree with Gene's methods, she'd be damned if she wouldn't back him up before this man.

The room was small, grey walls, floor and table. Anthony was still in his pristine white chef's coat, and his bright hair shone under the glare of the overhead lighting. He didn't look at them as Gene and Alex entered and came around to take the two chairs across the table from him. His solicitor, a slick black-haired woman in a dark suit, reminding Alex of a sharp-eyed crow, perched on the chair beside him, waiting to strike.

In contrast, their suspect lounged back in his seat and looked Alex over slowly. "Well that's a pisser. I liked that dress." His Cockney accent seemed thick and exaggerated.

Gene gave the lowest of growls.

Ignoring both men, Alex leaned across Gene and flicked on the recorder. "Beginning of interview with Nigel Anthony, also known as Nigel Potts. Present, Alexandra Drake, DI, Gene Hunt, DCI, and..." She raised her eyebrows at the solicitor.

"Hillary Marks."

"The time is—" Alex glanced at the wall clock. "Twenty-two hundred hours and fifteen minutes." Bloody hell. Not at all how she expected to be finishing this evening.

She sat back in her chair. Anthony continued to leer at her. She gave him a bland smile. "We are investigating a series of murders and believe you may be able to help us."

"So, I'll be assisting the police with their inquires, as they say?" Anthony said jovially.

Gene leant forward on his forearm to keep from reaching across the table for Anthony. The chef's attention immediately switched to Gene.

Alex knew that Gene was a large man, but there was something about being contained in this small room that made him seem to grow, almost emitting a force. She felt as though if she touched him, she'd receive a shock.

"You're Nigel Potts," Gene said accusingly.

"Yes," Anthony said smoothly. "It doesn't really have a ring to it, you know? Sounds a bit common." Now it was Gene that he was looking over slowly.

"Your father was Harry Potts," Alex asked.

"Yeah."

"And he was killing prossies," rasped Gene.

Anthony shrugged casually. "Don't know anything about that."

"Do you remember the day I knocked him in front of a train?"

Alex watched Anthony closely. Rather than show anger or fear as would be expected, he relaxed, seeming almost gleeful.

"Did you?" he drawled. "That wasn't very nice."

Alex gave Gene's leg a nudge under the table and amazingly, he followed her lead.

"Yes, your father died while Constable Hunt was attempting to arrest him. Did you know anything about your father's crimes?"

Hillary murmured in Anthony's ear but didn't stop him from speaking. He kept his gaze on Gene. Normally it riled Alex to be ignored during an interview by men, but she saw the advantage here.

Keeping her voice low and unobtrusive, just as when interviewing a patient, Alex continued. Gene did his part, his welding flame eyes staying locked with Anthony's.

"Your father lured at least four young women to their deaths. You were aged ten, I believe. Did you know anything about his crimes?"

"No."

"No indication at all that your father was disturbed?"

"He was a dull stick. I didn't give him much thought."

"Did your mother mention anything to you?"

This got a flick to the end of Anthony's wide mouth, a twist of disgust. "Mum was dead."

Interesting use of the past tense, she thought. "How did she die?"

"Just disappeared one night?" suggested Gene. He draped his arm along the back of Alex's chair. When Alex shifted, trying to keep some professional distance between their bodies, the loose jumper slipped off her shoulder and her red bra strap was revealed.

Anthony smirked. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of tugging up the neckline. Gene was also looking, but there was that expression in his eyes again, incongruous adoration, his gaze sliding along the strip of red silk like a little boy's grubby hand reaching for forbidden candy.

She returned her focus to Anthony again. "Your mother?" she prompted.

He shrugged. "Dunno. Dad said she went to her auntie's for a visit and just never came back."

"What was her name, please," Alex asked, pen poised over her notebook.

He narrowed his eyes but finally said grudgingly, "Pam."

"Pam Potts?" Gene interjected with a snort.

"That was her."

"You don't seem very upset about her disappearance," noted Alex.

"Yeah, most blokes think of their mum as an angel," Gene said.

That got a reaction, if subtle. Anthony's nostrils flared. Alex had to bite her inner cheek to keep from smiling. Gene was good at this, blustering manner aside.

He kept at it. "Was she an angel, Nige? Did she just fly away one night?"

"Fuck off," growled Anthony.

His solicitor stepped in. "I don't see what this possibly has to do with the murders that you're investigating—"

Leaning further across the table, Gene stared down his prey but addressed Hillary in a barrage of bit-off words. "The victims in the 80's, killed by good ol' Harry, and the new killings have the same M.O. The current victims aren't killed where they're found. Footage from the crime scenes show delivery vans, just right for dropping off bodies. These vans are all connected with Mr Anthony's restaurant. We call that a reason to be having this little chat."

Hillary glanced at her client. "I say that we're done here," she said flatly.

"That's fine," Gene said, "we'll get a search warrant and take a look around Mr Anthony's properties. You see, the victims are killed somewhere quiet, secure and very, very clean. Such as a professional kitchen."

Stunned, Alex folded her arms tightly. Like a bull in a china shop, Hunt was clearing the shelves with each swing of his big fat head. She could tell he was making all this up as he went along.

The solicitor stood and Anthony hopped up as well.

"You'll be staying."

Anthony tossed his hair back in the manner of a shying horse. "I have a restaurant full of diners. The last seating—"

"I'm sure the chief bottle washer can serve up slops just as palatable as yours are," Gene said.

Alex stood too, her chair screeching across the floor with an much tension as her quivering nerves. "DCI Hunt, may we speak?"

"No time, Drake," he said dismissively. "Mr. Anthony assaulted an officer; he's under arrest." He gave her one of his pouts. She couldn't believe that mouth had been on her tit just a few hours ago and now he was doing his petulant bad boy act with it.

Furious, Alex said with clipped notes, "Interview ending at twenty-three hundred hours," and switched off the recorder.

Anthony started to protest again, but Hillary stopped him with a raised hand. "Can we have some time to talk before he's moved into a cell?" she asked.

Outside the interview room, before Alex could really flay Gene, he tipped his head, drawing her attention to Martin Summers still lurking at the end of the corridor. Dave Ritchie came around the corner, and spotting Summers, hurried to his side. The men shook hands, their fingers clasping in an odd way to Alex.

"Bloody hell," growled Gene, "just what we need. The secret handshake brigade."

"Masons?" breathed Alex, her anger momentarily forgotten.

"Looks like it." Gene turned his back on the two whispering men.

Alex remembered what she was going to say. "Hunt, this is crazy!" she hissed, mindful of Summers. "Just because Nigel Anthony's father killed women in a specific way and we now have similar murders, doesn't mean that Anthony is doing them."

He leaned his broad shoulder against the wall and squinted. "But..." he said leadingly.

She hated to admit it. "For someone who's the face of a multi-million pound franchise, who just had the shocking news that his father was a serial killer, he seemed pretty damn calm. Hell, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

The normal reaction should be horror, fear of losing everything from bad press...he should be as nervous as a very small nun at a penguin shoot—" She stopped herself and passed a hand over her eyes. "Where the hell did that come from," she wondered aloud. Then remembered, and pulled herself up short. Sam Tyler musing, 'Hunt would say the craziest things. Like talking to a twelve year old with lager breath.'

She quickly glanced at Gene. His features were impassive and she felt foolish.

She continued to talk about Nigel Anthony: "He's narcissistic, arrogant—Obviously a risk-taker. The right age, physically fit—"

"Fits your profile to a tee, does he?" Gene gave her a quick quirk of a smile, obviously pleased.

"I best request that search warrant," Alex said as her only concession.

"'spect so." He pushed off the wall and swaggered arrogantly to the incident room.

Tabitha was waiting in the otherwise empty room. "I've applied for the search warrant," she said smartly.

"Good one," said Gene, dropping into his chair. "You're reading me mind, Tabs."

She looked at Alex, confused. "I was watching your interview."

He furrowed his brow. "Didn't see any two-way mirror."

Alex cocked her head. "We have cameras. You don't have them in Manchester?" The GMP offices that she visited while interviewing Sam had been state of the art.

"No," he said shortly.

"Alex, I'd like to speak to you," came from behind them. Meg Harper standing in the doorway of her office. The older woman's face was set with anger.

"Yes, Ma'am," said Alex, giving Gene a worried look before heading to her office.

Meg closed the door behind her and strolled around her desk before Alex could. Spotting the party dress on the chair, the DCI lifted it, her mouth twisted in disgust.

Setting her jaw, Alex waited.

"Alex, I have such hopes for your career. You could be the first female Commissioner someday, dammit!"

Truly astonished, Alex's mouth fell open. She'd always been slightly uncomfortable with Harper's avid interest in her career, but in an enlightening moment, she could see that her superior had crossed a line.

"I don't see what that has to do with how I'm working this case," Alex said coldly. "Stopping this killer is my primary focus at this time."

As though she hadn't spoken, Harper went on. "Tossing it all away. For what? A big dick?" she said crudely.

Alex's vision went red, a deeper shade than her dress. "I think it's you who's allowed your perspective to be clouded. Since Gene Hunt has arrived in London, we've made substantial progress, much more than I'd done alone before he came. Solving this case is of premium importance, right?"

Meg only sputtered.

"And what I choose to do with DCI Hunt in my off hours is of no business of yours in the least."

"I thought you would trust me," Meg spat out. "That you appreciated my interest—" She moved around the desk toward Alex, who stepped back.

The door swung open and was filled by Gene's bulk. "Anything I can help with?" he asked aggressively.

Alex put out her arm and his palm came to rest over his heart. "No, it's fine."

"Doesn't look fine." Gene's gaze swung from Alex to Harper.

The DCI went on the offensive. "I was sharing my concern with DI Drake that a Scotch-soaked, misogynist bastard like you will ruin her chances." She looked him up and down. "Surely you know that you have no future in the force. Don't drag down Alex too. She may seem like nothing but a convenient twat for you to shag, but she does good work, better than you ever shall."

Gene returned the favour, giving the shorter woman a slow look over. "That stamp on yer arse still hurts, yeah?"

Alex didn't understand what he meant, but Harper obviously did. Her face turned an ugly purple. She turned her back on Gene and addressed Alex: "Nigel Anthony is a prominent member of London society. He has neither the time nor motive to be rushing about murdering and dumping bodies—"

Folding her arms, Alex shook her head. "We have reason to believe—"

"We've put in for search warrants," said Gene, "go tell it to the judge if you think we're full of shit."

Harper swung back around. "Fine, Hunt. I'll give you just enough rope to hang yourself. And I'll take great pleasure in watching you twitch as the noose tightens."

She swept from the office before anyone could reply.

Alex managed to focus on the wall clock. Ten minutes after midnight. "Damn," she said, utterly exhausted. "I'm knackered."

Gene's head hung down as he leant on her desk, but he insisted, "As soon as that search warrant comes through, we have to move. We can't afford to go to your flat for a lie-in. That bastard's having Summers strip his place clean as we speak."

"We need sleep," she pointed out. Her emotions had been high and low, the wildest of carnival rides for hours. Like a toddler who'd thrown a protracted tantrum, she was drained and desperately wanted to be picked up and cuddled close in Daddy's arms. But Daddy was long gone...

"We're no use in this shape." She held out her hand.

Gene stared at her outstretched fingers dumbly, then wrapped his own hand around them. "We'll get some kip in a cell?" he asked.

"No, silly. There's a respite room." She led him down the quiet corridors and after flipping a sign on the door to Occupied, pulled Gene into the room.

He gawked at the single bed against the wall.

Behind him, Alex said, "We'll have to squash up."

"Squash," Gene echoed faintly. But when he glanced over at her, the situation was becoming even more dire.

She was performing some complex contortion under her jumper, then triumphantly pulled her bra out through the neckline. "Better," she said with satisfaction as she tossed the undergarment on the room's one chair. "That thing's been poking at me for hours."

He looked sadly at the discarded red bra.

Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him to the bed. "Come along, Guv. Time is ticking."

First he removed his mobile from his pocket and put it on the bedside table. Then he pulled his weapon from the small of his back and placed it by the phone.

"Don't know if I'm comfortable with that thing by my head," Alex said dryly as she toed out of her shoes.

"Got the safety on, luv," he said as he dropped his jacket on the chair, covering her offending bra, and then flicked open a few buttons on his shirt.

She tried to keep her bravado with a knowing laugh but his gaze looked completely serious and the sound died in her throat with a sort of croak. Her heart was thundering despite her bossy manner.

"You take the wall," she demanded. "I'll take the outside."

Obediently, he lay down, but propped his head on his arm, and with his long legs, reminded her of some magazine centrefold. She grinned but he only patted the mattress, staying in provocative character.

"Tosser," she muttered, and flipped out the light. The darkness renewed her courage. Wedging herself in beside him, she pressed her back to his chest. Grabbing his arm, she placed it around her waist. Not quite sure what to do with his hand, she finally laced her fingers with his and tucked it under her chin. As though drugged, fatigue pulled her down into sleep. Her last thought was a vague discontent that he wasn't even copping a feel, the bastard...

Gene matched his breathing with hers, hoping it would make him sleep. If anything, her familiar scent kept him awake. Once his vision adjusted to the dimness, he took the simple pleasure of watching her eyelashes flutter and her eyes drift under her lids, the way her lips twitched. He'd done this many a time, usually in the Quattro on a stakeout. On the slimmest of leads, he'd set up a watch and assign Ray and Chris into a panda, leaving Alex and he alone. They'd talk in the dark, about nothing really. He liked hearing her voice; it was like listening to the poshest presenter on the Beeb. And then she'd drift off to sleep, and he could watch her, listen to her breathing, easily imagine that this is what it would be like to lie in bed with her every night.

Ashamed, he remembered the time that he'd actually put himself in bed with her. It wasn't right. Alex was in his world for a reason and it wasn't to be his plaything. Even though he didn't do anything more than enjoy this sensation of lying beside her, the Super had given him hell for it the next day on the phone; the bastard could see everything after all.

But now he was in the real world, entwined with her. Her steady breathing causing her body to brush against his, her legs shifting, one sliding between his, her grip on his hand going slack as she went deeper into sleep. He buried his nose in her hair and allowed himself to drift off as well.

o

Last to sleep, first to wake. Gene's eyes snapped open as they always did when he woke. To find himself face to face with Alex, her own eyelids fluttering and opening as though sensing his gaze.

"Mornin'," she murmured, "what're you doin' 'ere?" But instead of struggling away, she snuggled under his chin, caught by sleep again momentarily. "You a dream?" was the slightest of whispers.

"Yeah, just a dream," he rasped, trying to scoot away, only to run into the wall. Morning glory instead; this damned woman always made him go into full bloom.

More awake, she shifted after him. "This is how I expected the evening to go," she said, her voice still sleepy.

She'd expected them to have sex. Perhaps she was interested...Then she rolled onto her back and his doubts returned.

"Best check on those warrants," he grumbled and did something utterly insane. He actually tried to crawl out over her. Hovered atop her, seeing her amused expression, he realised his error.

Alex raised her knee, effectively blocking his progress. Sure, he could wrestle free—her hands on his hips, pulling him down flush to her.

"That's better," she said with a deep sigh.

How many times had he loomed over her, and his mind had galloped forward to just this scenario, but now, here—

"Alex, I..." he started, but couldn't possibly think of what to say next. It was complicated, after all.

She shifted, bringing her pelvis up snug to his. His eyes rolled back in agony.

"At least DCI Harper was right about one thing," she said breathlessly. He didn't know what she meant, and when her hands swept up under his shirt, smoothing across his back, making him thrum like an alley kitten being petted, he really didn't give two shits.

But there was an idea. Get that feel up that he'd been thwarted at. His thumb shyly hooked the hem of her jumper and pushed it upwards.

And yet he just kept yammering. "I...should tell you..."

She nipped his chin, her teeth grazing his morning stubble. "Normally, I'm all for analysis and deliberation, but right now—" She did that thing again where she lifted her hips and pressed against his embarrassment. "I say that a bit of a grope and grind doesn't require much discussion."

"It's not that," he grumbled, slightly irritated that she couldn't guess at his distress and yet undyingly grateful that she didn't. His hips were ignoring his reservations and joined hers in a lazy rolling motion. It felt simple and primal. Just a slip of his trousers' top button, hers too, pushing fabric aside, the deed would be done...In the meantime, his seeking fingertips found the underside of her left breast, and he's never touched anything so soft in his short life—

The door swung open. "Wakey-wakey, DI Drake," Tabitha called out cheerfully.

Everything started to happen very fast. Gene leapt off Alex, with a vague hope of hiding behind her and instead rapped his head sharply on the wall. Alex jumped out of bed, tugging her jumper down. Tabitha squeaked in shock and mortification.

"I'm _so_ sorry," she gasped. "I didn't—"

"No problem," Alex said, smoothing her flyaway hair behind her ears. "DCI Hunt and I were just grabbing some rest..." Really, she shouldn't have said anything. The constable was obviously fighting laughter.

"What is it, DC Jones?" Alex asked.

"The search warrants are here," Tabitha said, obviously grateful to keep things on a professional footing.

Gene yanked on his jacket, keeping his back turned while he visualised every half-rotted corpse that he'd ever viewed...their eyes eaten out by maggots...Ah yes, that did the trick. He snatched up his weapon and dropped it in his jacket pocket. "Let's get to it," he announced.

Tabitha and Alex were both frozen by the door though, staring at the chair. Alex's vivid red bra was still on it. With a growl, he snatched it up and shoved it into her hand as he stormed past, followed by a hail of women's hysterical giggles.

o

Three hours later, Gene leant against Alex's car and puffed through a couple of cigarettes between gulps of lukewarm tea from a soggy paper cup. "Bloody well told you the bastard would get rid of all the evidence," he groused. "This is what we get for waiting instead of kicking his door down last night."

Inside the car against the light rain, and to warm her feet still in those ridiculous strappy sandals—she was never going to wear heels again—Alex brooded as well. "We have to follow procedure," she snipped back.

They'd spent the morning trailing all over London to watch as the forensic teams searched Nigel Anthony's properties. First, his two million pound modern flat in the Docklands; he obviously took pleasure in living as posh as possibly in his childhood haunts. Next his extremely tasteful Chelsea business offices, and finishing at his clinical test kitchen in Soho. Gene had finally demanded a bacon buttie and chomped through it as he gloomily listened to the team leaders report finding nothing.

Now he stared fixedly at the shop window across from the car. It was a bookshop with a display of sex manuals, interspersed with brightly coloured naughty toys. It seemed that Gene couldn't get away from butt plugs, no matter what the universe. But maybe it wouldn't hurt to give a peek in one of those books...The window banner said: Sex Positive. What the flaming hell did that mean? When was sex ever negative? It was love that made a mess of things. God, what a woofter he was! Right on top of Bolly this morning and he couldn't pull the trigger; he'd had the safety on.

"Let's go home and clean up," Alex said, making him guiltily start. She bitched at him as he tossed the sandwich wrapper and paper cup in the gutter, but he ignored her, slumping down in the passenger seat, lost in his churning thoughts.

At her flat, they took turns showering. Alex washed off the last dregs of makeup and when she tossed her thong knickers in the laundry basket, it was as though any promise of the previous night was gone.

Gene used the privacy of the shower to take care of his own remnant from spending hours too close to this damnable Bolly. Refreshed and refocused, he dressed quickly.

"You seen my mobile?" he asked, sticking his head out of Molly's bedroom.

Triumphant, Alex held up her own phone. "Sorry."

"Must be back at the Yard," he grumbled as he shrugged on his overcoat.

But when they entered the incident room, Donna and Tabitha rushed to them. The two women immediately started talking over each other.

"DI Drake—"

"DCI Hunt—"

Gene held up his hands. "Take it down to first gear, girls. What's happening?"

Alex gave him a quelling glare. "What is it?"

"They've released Nigel Anthony," Donna told them, obviously vexed. "When nothing turned up on the searches—"

"Son of a bitch," growled Gene.

"To be expected," Alex said tightly, "we'll just have to keep at it. He can't clean up that well."

"Wiped everything down like his damn stainless steel worktops," said Gene.

"We'll keep at it," Alex repeated, stalking to the boards with all the photographs and evidence.

Gene suddenly remembered taking his mobile from his pocket in the respite room. He needed a smoke anyway. He left Alex and the rest of the team to rehash the evidence.

Welton and Meg Harper entered and looked around.

Wondering why her sergeant was with her DCI, Alex approached. "What's on?" she asked.

"Let's talk in your office," Harper said, dismissing the rest of the team and their avid interest.

Dread rising, Alex trailed them to her office and closed the door. "This isn't about the case." It wasn't a question.

Rob Welton pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, but Harper did the talking. "This is Gene Hunt's mobile."

"He'd lost it," Alex said.

"Rob found it, and while trying to determine the owner, found some very disturbing voice memos," said Harper.

She nodded at Welton. He activated the recording feature and Gene's words filled the office.

_I am Gene Hunt, and the last thing I remember was lookin' up at an oncoming train in 1985. Now it's 2008 and Bolly hasn't been shot yet._

"I don't understand," Alex said.

"There's more," Harper told her.

Stunned, Alex fell mute. Welton clicked the button again, bringing up another memo.

_It'll happen around Molly's birthday. Alex 'ill be shot in the head. _

Welton quickly turned off the recording, then helpfully reminded her, "Made me think of how DCI Hunt asked you if you'd ever been shot, ma'am." He forwarded onto the next memo.

_Alex thinks she can take care of herself and Molly but I know she's wrong. I've got to stay close, wait for me chance—_

"I just don't understand," Alex repeated, her voice small. She was chilled to the bone and shaking.

"Gene Hunt is obviously mentally unbalanced and dangerous," said Harper, brimming with satisfaction. "We'll detain him—"

"Detain him?" Alex echoed.

"I think she needs to hear more," Harper said, her glee still evident.

_Need to show her that I'm the only bloke who can take care of her...What a load of bollocks about that Evan White and his concern for her..._

Gene banged through the incident room doors, truly pissed off. That damn mobile had taken a walkabout. What sort of world was this where a fellow copper would nick your property?

He noticed that Alex was her in office with that poofter Welton and the harridan Harper. "What's that about?" he asked Tabitha.

She shrugged and returned to her computer monitor.

Cursing under his breath, Gene was about to storm the citadel, when the phone on his desk rang. He snatched up the receiver and barked, "Hunt."

"DCI Gene Hunt?" an older woman's light voice said tentatively.

"Yeah." Through the office window, he saw that Welton had noticed him. The sergeant must have said something to Alex, because she turned and saw him. Her expression was filled with pain. He wondered what the hell was up now.

"This is Ruth Tyler."

That got his attention. "Wot?"

"Sam's mum." He noticed the Northern lilt to her words now.

"Yeah. Long time," he said carefully.

"It's time that we caught up," she said crisply. "Though you're in a great deal of danger at this moment."

He looked at Alex again. He knew her expression now; it was the one that she'd had when she'd thought that he'd killed Sam. Utter betrayal and fear.

"Yeah," he said, turning his back on the office.

"You're going to have to escape rather quickly and come to me," Ruth said urgently. She gave him the address. He scribbled it on his notepad and tore the slip of paper loose.

He heard Welton open the office door. Gene kept his limbs loose, giving nothing away. "See you in a bit then," he told Ruth.

"Be careful. There's cameras all over London, a million ways to trace a man," Ruth said, "but this is the most important moment of your...life." He heard that humour that was often behind her words.

"Right-o." He dropped the receiver on its cradle. He could see what was happening behind him in the dark windows across from his desk. Welton was coming through the door with Alex following.

She called out, "Gene."

He bolted, running for this temporary, precious life.

End ~ Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

_A bit of recasting from Life on Mars 2.8. I'm sorry, but Ruth Tyler will always be Joanne Froggatt to me. _

* * *

The noise echoed through the offices. He accused many of sitting on their hands, but this time, he was literally doing just that.

The others were not even pretending to work, and were staring at the show he and the Super were putting on, and waiting, like him, for the sound to stop. They needed him. But he didn't need to hear the Super say it again and again and again, so the ringing continued.

A break in the traffic finally descended in the shape of silence. Deadly silence. The dead don't always go quietly. The dead are broken windows where the wind blows through and empty shells of houses that have turned to ruin.

He pulled the file he'd started when she left from his top drawer and poured its contents onto his desk. _And I remember you._ So many promises he'd made. So many memories are knocked down or replaced. This time the shifting time wouldn't win.

He opened up his current case file as well, placing it side by side to this personal one. A prossie dressed to kill, to get his attention, to taunt him, to remind him he was a backyard boy, hiding in the wreckage of broken dreams.

He looked out at the faces on the other side of the glass, so young, too young. He could say all the sweetness has been taken out of this place, but he still didn't think any of them would be a part of this psycho's spree.

So how…

Standing by the railway line…

The telephone began its shrill call again. He ignored it again. He knew it was the Super. He didn't want to speak ill of the dead.

Besides, he was late for the train.

* * *

"Oi!" yelled Welton from the top of the stairwell. Gene glanced up, but kept clattering down.

"Hey!" Welton hung onto the railing for support. "We just want to talk to you, Hunt!"

Gene didn't even pause; he knew what just a talk would be like. As Welton and Alex had come out of the office, Gene had briefly met Meg Harper's gaze. He knew those cold, shark-dark eyes. He's seen them in Frank Morgan's and Jim Keats' smug mugs. Then he noticed his mobile in Harper's hand and what had happened snapped him like a rubberband shot between his eyes. Get out, get away, regroup before he could be stopped from saving Alex.

The door flung open on the landing above and two constables joined Welton in the chase. Slamming his shoulder against the next landing's door, Gene ducked into the corridor. Snatching a chair, he rammed it under the handle, barring their pursuit. This bought him time. The canteen was on this floor, and he'd followed a tea lady out for a fag one day. He knew another way down to the street.

oOo

Welton, breathing heavily, his round face red and sweaty, burst back through the incident room doors empty handed. "We've lost him," he announced unnecessarily.

Harper banged down the phone into which she'd been barking orders. "Front desk says that he didn't go past them. No door alarms have gone off. It's as though he sprouted wings and flew off the roof," she ranted.

Alex's heart lurched. Donna, standing beside her, squeezed her arm. "If there'd been a jumper, we would have heard," she said, low enough for only Alex to hear. Alex nodded, biting her lower lip.

"Start checking the CCTV cameras on the streets," Harper demanded. She swung around and glared at Alex. "Do you know anything?"

"Apparently, I know nothing," Alex said tonelessly.

Entering the incident room with a stack of files, Dave Ritchie asked, "What's going on?"

She didn't know what to say. What was wrong? Other than the man that she'd found refreshingly straightforward apparently had dark secrets.

DCI Harper answered for her. "Gene Hunt has not been truthful with us about his reasons for being here," she said coldly, "we wish to speak with him before he can continue on this case."

Dave smirked knowingly as he focused on Alex, but Tabitha and Donna folded their arms tightly and looked outraged.

Alex returned to her office without saying a word in Gene's defence. Harper had left Gene's mobile on her desk. Without knowing why, she pocketed it. Taking a deep breath, she looked around her office. For the first time in her professional career, she had no idea what to do next. Suddenly, tears threatened. Another gulp of air...

It was her job to profile personalities, to sus out dangerous behaviour, and with Gene Hunt, she'd nearly put her neck in his noose. Chills wracked her body and she stumbled to the door to pull her jacket off the back. Huddled at her desk again, she tried to think.

Why did he want to harm her? Those long, surprisingly delicate fingers stroking her cheek, cradling her jaw as he kissed her… Had he been one breath away from squeezing her throat?

She's always had the shittiest instincts when it came to men. Clive—twat name, should have warned her off— who took her virginity at a teen houseparty and yet had his hand up Jackie Slaughter's skirt ten minutes after zipping his trousers. She'd had a crush on him for months and thought his interest meant he returned her feelings. Why couldn't she see he was just a dickhead boy after a shag?

Then Peter and all his failings...but somehow his scrawled note saying that he was leaving her and Molly came as a complete shock.

Each rejection had made her retreat a bit further, fasten another button higher on her blouse, turn her gaze away from any appreciative look, and bury herself under work.

Gene Hunt was different than any other man that she'd known. Odd that an obviously misogynist, blowhard, arrogant pig could make her feel so...alive. A strange way to describe it, but all her awkwardness was gone with him, her blood thundered with anger and passion, her mind stayed on edge, waiting to fence with him again.

Only once more, she'd read a man wrong and this time, it could have cost her career or even her life—

Stop.

She had to treat this like any other case. Where could he have gone? Who would give him shelter? She pulled Gene's mobile from her pocket and checked the call history. Her, Tabitha, Donna. Her number was the only one saved, and she'd been the one to do it.

Nothing made any sense. She needed to start with what few shreds of evidence she had. She pushed back from her desk.

"Where are you going?" Harper asked as Alex tried to leave the incident room.

Alex found herself saying, "I don't feel well. I'm going home to rest," rather than the truth.

The DCI smirked. "Of course," she said soothingly. "You do that." She added, "I'll have a detail keep an eye on you."

Alex started to protest. Behind Harper, Tabitha and Donna mirrored each others' pissed off expressions. Alex shot them a warning look before saying, "I'm sure I'll be back later this afternoon." To the rest of her squad, she announced, "Keep working on this case. Don't let's be distracted by this situation with DCI Hunt. We must catch this killer."

"Yes, boss," they all echoed.

oOo

As she mounted the steps to her building, Alex spotted the uniformed constables positioned up and down the street. At the landing for her flat's door, another fresh-faced constable stood at attention. Alex introduced herself.

"PC O'Brien," he replied. "At your service."

She made her smile warm and mustered some sincerity to say: "I feel so much better knowing you and the lads are here for me."

Locking her door securely behind her, Alex headed directly to Molly's room to search Gene's things. His carryall, discovered under the bed, was empty. Not even a return ticket stuck in the outer pocket. He brought his toiletries back from the bathroom after every use, which she found odd. Sitting on the bed, she rooted through the small bag. An old fashioned steel safety razor, a bar of Lifebuoy soap, a small bottle of Prell shampoo, the Paco Rabanne cologne that she expected. No condoms, she noticed with irritation.

Next was the wardrobe. He'd carefully moved Molly's things to one side, and his couple of suits and shirts hung neatly on the other. His tuxedo had been haphazardly put on a hanger, a testament to their hurried morning.

It had only been this morning when she been lying under Gene, rubbing on him like some horny teenager— She pulled the black dinner jacket's sleeve to her nose; it smelt of her perfume, his cologne and stale cigarettes. Releasing the sleeve, she slammed the wardrobe door shut.

Checking under the pillow and mattress, she found nothing. Putting the bedding back in place, she picked up the Paddington bear that she'd tossed on the floor. Sitting on the bed again, she buried her face in the toy. Gene's familiar scent was on it too. She choked on a watery laugh, imagining him snuggling it close as he slept.

Lifting her face, she looked at the bear again. She'd had one similar—why had she not thought of that in years? There was much from her early childhood that she seemed to have put away in a dark box. Gene's arrival, and the reminders of her parents, had awakened some memories though.

Evan had taken her to buy a toy after the funeral. He'd told her that she could choose anything that she wanted, assuming she'd want a doll with a china head, or a nurse's kit. Instead, she'd chosen a bear, with yellow fur and silver button eyes.

She jumped up. Banging out through the front door, she didn't bother to stop PC O'Brien from following her in a marked car. She needed to see something this instance.

Evan was away at work. She let herself into his flat, and went to the spare bedroom's cupboard. He allowed her to store a few boxes there. Thankful for her height, she pulled down a large one from a high shelf.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she opened the box and sorted through the contents. Her undergrad gown from Magdalene College. A red leather jacket from her teen years, outgrown but she could never part with it. Finally, at the bottom, was a slightly crushed stuffed animal. It was smaller than she remembered. He had seemed to fill her arms, almost as though he was hugging her back. His button eyes glistened in the light coming through the window.

Being carried away from the fire in a pair of strong arms, looking up into his face...the man was clean-shaven; Evan had had a beard even then. Blond hair flopping over his brow, pale eyes, shining like this toy's.

_Don't worry, little lady. I've got you. Nothin's gonna 'appen to you._

She gripped the bear so hard that her fists closed around the stuffing.

Genie bear; she'd called him Genie. Evan hadn't understood. "It's a girl bear?" She'd explained with a child's patronising patience that no, it was a boy bear.

Still emotional, Alex fumbled in her pocket for her mobile. At first, she pulled out Gene's, but dropped it back in her pocket as though it was burning. Finding her own, she called Molly.

"Mum, I'll be home for my birthday, right?"

"Yes, sweetie," Alex said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

"Will the Guv be at my party?" the girl asked excitedly.

Alex changed the subject without answering. "Perhaps I'll come to France for your birthday, Mols."

Her daughter sounded disappointed. "I suppose."

Continuing to move the conversation away from Molly's birthday, Alex asked her about her classes and activities at the school. Just as she finally disconnected the call, Evan arrived at his flat.

To not startle him, she called out: "Evan, it's Alex. I'm in here."

Her godfather stood in the doorway, puzzled. "Why aren't you at work?"

"I just took a couple hours this afternoon."

His gaze fell to the bear she still clutched. "You came by to get that toy?"

"Evan, the day of the explosion. My parents' car—" She saw him tense, but she was determined. "It was you, right?"

"Me, what?" His gaze wasn't meeting her imploring eyes.

"Who found me."

"Yes, I was there."

She had to know. "No, I mean, it was you who picked me up in the field."

He shrugged. "It was so long ago, Alex. It was an awful day. Everything's a blur. I really couldn't say. I mean, you always remembered that I'd picked you up, isn't that so?"

"I always have remembered it that way," she conceded.

"Then that's what happened."

"Or is it what I wanted to remember?" she mused more to herself than to him.

"Did you want some lunch? I can call down to reception for takeaway."

She stood, still holding the teddy bear. "No, I should be going." She could barely brush his cheek with a kiss as she passed.

oOo

From the end of the lane, Gene watched the address that Ruth Tyler had given him. The lace curtains never moved on the dark windows of the red brick semi-detached. He finally made his way to the front door and rapped quickly.

For some reason, he was shocked at the older woman who answered the door. "At last," she greeted him, and he heard the achingly familiar Northern lilt to her voice. Then he recognised her bright blue eyes and the bird-like tilt of her head. Her cornsilk hair striated with white strands was neatly wound at the base of her neck.

"Well get in here, pet," she scolded, tugging his arm.

He followed the trim figure as she bustled down the narrow hall to the lounge. "No worries that you were followed?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Kept 'em off me tail, Mrs Tyler," he said carefully, still a bit uncertain.

She motioned to a worn armchair. "Let me get you some tea." Of course. Tea must be drunk before any business could be addressed.

After Ruth left the lounge, another older woman's voice, also from the north: "Won't the missus like a lovely scent? Rose musk for her."

"Wot?" Gene said, still on-guard. In the diffused light streaming through the lace curtains, a dark figure was nearly hidden. Gene's hand slid under his jacket, reaching for his gun.

Ruth came up behind him. "Don't need that thing," she hissed at him, "It's just my sister Heather."

Gene's eyes adjusted to the light. Sitting bolt upright, the older woman was taller than her sister, and her long white hair was in a matching bun. But her eyes were vacant and unfocused. Yes, Sam had an Auntie Heather; in Manchester, she'd been a Beauvoir Lady selling warpaint and stink to birds, but obviously something wasn't right now.

Ruth poured tea and added two pink wafers to his saucer before handing the cup to him.

"Ta," he said, still uncomfortable at the silent woman across the room. But when he took the first sip, a sigh of contentment escaped. "Finally, a proper cuppa."

"Yes, these Shandies and their toilet water that they call tea," Ruth said with a cluck.

"Thames water is stronger and tastier," Gene said in agreement.

Ruth handed a large mug only half full to her sister. Light came to Heather's eyes, and she wrapped her thin fingers around the sturdy handle.

Niceties finished, Ruth settled back in her sagging chair. She must have sensed Gene's impatient curiosity. She peered at him impishly over her cup's rim. "Enough about tea, yeah. You want to know what I'm about, right?"

"I appreciated the warning," was all he said before inhaling the first wafer.

"It took some doing to reach you, but we'd seen that woman with your mobile. She's trying to be rid of you," Ruth warned.

Her single-minded manner reminded Gene of the way that Sam would go on when he first arrived at the station, confident in knowledge that only he held. "That she was," he said shortly. "But how do you come to be in London? I'd thought that you'd be up north."

Ruth looked at Heather, who remained impassive. "I lost Sam, then found my sister gone too. Sammy was her favourite, but she never came to see him in hospital or even to his funeral. After he died, I came here to London and found her in such a state as this. The doctors called it Alzheimer's."

"Terrible thing," Gene murmured, reaching for one of the Garibaldis which were also on the plate that she'd brought with the tea.

"No, not at all," Ruth assured him. "It's not some disease, no matter what they say. It's just that she spends more time in other worlds than this."

Spraying his tie with biscuit crumbs, Gene just nodded. He had no idea what she was on about, but that seemed to be his permanent state since coming here.

Noting his empty cup, Ruth refilled it, then went to Heather and gave her a bit more.

Heather seemed to approve. Nodding, she spoke again. "A bit of rain today. Sammy is watching football instead of mowing the grass."

"That's nice, my dear," Ruth said soothingly, then noticed Gene's astonished expression.

"When we were girls, she seemed to have the second sight. Now she sees all sorts of places and people, and tells me about them. I started to recognise names from the stories that Sammy told when he came out of his coma. I'd thought he was mad...but how could they be talking about the same people?"

Gene had no answers. He gulped his tea thirstily.

"She's told me about everyone that Sammy did; Annie Cartwright and how he came to love her… a bloody bloke named Ray Carling, a right silly one, Chris Skelton… And you, Gene Hunt. The Manc lion."

oOo

Back in her flat, Alex put together a quick salad and sat down at her desk with Gene's mobile. Shoving the first bite of lettuce into her mouth, she activated the memos again.

First, she heard what Welton had played for her: _I am Gene Hunt, and the last thing I remember was lookin' up at an oncoming train in 1985. Now it's 2008 and Bolly hasn't been shot yet. _but then it continued: _No idea how I ended up here, but got a feeling this is my last job. No more handing coppers over to Nelson. Don't know how much time I have left before I'm checked through to my own final destination, but God be damned, I'm going to find a way to save Alex Drake's life._

Welton had shut off the memo before Alex could hear the last part. She stared at the device for a long minute. Then clicked to another message.

_Bloody hell, Sammy boy. Couldn't keep your gob closed when a pretty bird came around. _Gene's rare laugh sounded rusty. _Yah always did love to yap about yer feelings. And everything else, it seems. Now I see how Alex knew all about us. There I was worried she was from the wrong side, but she was just being her usual psycho bollocks self with the bits you'd given her._

Then the sound of Gene taking a long gulp of liquid; his whiskey, Alex was sure. _Had hoped you'd still be alive here, but no, you'd done a runner. Or a jumper, as it were. You were the one who got the chance to stay, and instead you came back to Annie and the lads. You tosser._

Overwhelmed, Alex had to look out the window, mindlessly chewing on her salad. Gene Hunt seemed to share Sam's delusions. Folie a deux? Perhaps he wasn't dangerous, but rather just ill...

She pulled Sam Tyler's file from her desk drawer and flipped it open. She looked at the final photograph in the file. Sam Tyler's body, as found on the pavement beneath the Manchester Police headquarters. Unlike most bodies from a fall, he was found on his back, facing up to the sky. The skull had been crushed on impact, but the features were still intact.

He was smiling, his eyes closed as though caught in the middle of a grand dream.

Determined, she flipped a page over the photograph. On the paper, she'd left a note beside Ruth Tyler's contact information. She'd meant to ring Mrs Tyler but with everything that had been happening, it had slipped her mind.

Alex had thought that he'd known no one in London, but perhaps if he and Sam had been friends, he would know how to contact Mrs. Tyler. At the least, Sam's mother could give her insight into this mysterious Manchurian. She reached for the phone to ring, but stopped herself. While in Manchester, she'd met Ruth once. Better to build off that rapport and talk to the older woman personally. Gathering her handbag and jacket, Alex headed out.

But on the landing, PC O'Brien's eager face greeted her. The last thing she wanted was the young policeman tagging along. If Ruth were able to give her a lead on Gene, O'Brien would immediately report back to Harper. Alex wanted to find Gene and talk to him as a troubled man in need of help, not a suspect.

She gave the constable a big smile. "I'm popping down to the corner Tesco—"

"I'll come along," he said quickly.

She kept her smile. "You can carry the basket then."

In the shop, she bustled along, her gaze darting as she tried to formulate her escape. O'Brien caught everyone's attention with his uniform and mumbling radio at his shoulder. Haphazardly tossing items in the basket which he dutifully held, she finally saw her opportunity.

"Constable, could you get that jar of chutney?" She pointed to a small container on the highest shelf. "I'll just pop around the corner and grab a lime, and we'll be finished."

He stretching up to reach, but his thick vest made it difficult. Putting the basket down, he tried again. Seeing he was well distracted, Alex ducked out of the aisle and through the side door to the street. Flipping up the hood on her jacket and keeping her head down, she quickly walked along, staying close to the building so her features wouldn't be caught on CCTV cameras. She darted into the first alley, cutting across to the next street, into a chemist's, and out that shop's side door, all to create more work for the officers who'd be checking these cameras.

Finally she dared to hop on a bus, carrying her across London.

oOo

Ruth motioned to a desk in the corner of the cluttered lounge. "I got myself one of those boxes," she said, meaning the computer. "And started looking up the names in Heather's tales."

"Searches," Gene said slowly, ridiculously proud that he could follow this conversation.

But it turned out that Ruth used older methods too. She retrieved a well-thumbed notebook and flipped through the pages.

"Right," she said smugly. "And I found them all. Ray, Chris, Annie...but every one of 'em was dead." She cocked her head. "You were harder to track. I had to actually go to the National Archives before I could find any mention of a missing young constable in Lancashire from the 50's, presumed dead. And that didn't fit with Sam's stories of his DCI and spending time with me and his Dad back in Manchester."

"'spect not," Gene said cautiously, still not sure how much to tell her.

She fixed Gene with a steely gaze. "At first, I didn't remember meeting any blustering copper, but as Heather went on and on, the more real it all seemed." She smiled at her sister. "Her stories pull you right in...It's kept me rather busy, you see. I write them up, fill in bits with my research—it's better than anything on the telly. Ever since Elsie and Bill died on Coronation Street, it's not worth turning the thing on but for the news," she said with a sniff, "and that's usually nothing but trash about Posh Spice and Becks anyway."

"That's how you knew I was here. The news," Gene suggested, still suspicious.

"Could have knocked me right off this chair when I saw you on the telly with that nice young DI who'd came to see Sam," Ruth agreed with a vigorous nod. She patted her notebook. "I didn't know what it meant, but I've put it all down." She tipped her head to her sister. "And Heather's been keeping an eye on you."

How did she see, if this is the real world?" asked Gene, scrubbing his head in confusion.

Before Ruth could reply, the front bell rang.

"The lioness has come for her mate," Heather said clearly.

~End, Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

The white tiled walls start to close in. He wonders just how long he's been stuck here, with time to waste. Forever.

There is no way to be sure. They've taken everything but his clothes. White pants, white shirt, blending in with the white walls. The white goes on forever.

He stands perfectly still in the room's centre. The slab protruding from the far wall beckons. The white mattress, the white sheets.

The silver throne reflects in the window's white light. The window is high and can't be reached. No view of the top of the hill. Just the white, which goes on forever.

How long has he been here? With time to waste. Yesterday is done, and tomorrow's yet to come. Everything goes on and on, with time to kill.

He glances up to where they watch, remembering that things go wrong. You live and learn, they say. He won't be gone forever.

Thought we could live for a thousand years, thought we were kings, but the song of life is just a song, and everything goes on and on.

Fools… The days go on… Forever… With time to kill.

* * *

"There you go, Lady Granny Knickers," Gene said with satisfaction as he clicked a handcuff around Alex's wrist, then fastened the other cuff around his own.

"Unbreakable," he added, pushing her down in a chair.

Panting, Alex tried to rise but he only pressed her back down by her shoulders. She should be frightened but she only felt fury. "Keep your bloody thoughts off my undergarments!" she hissed. Ignoring her indignation, he took the chair beside her.

Trying to get her bearings, she look frantically around the lounge. Faded chintz-covered couch and chairs, dark walnut furniture polished to a blinding shine. Happy little Hummel figures lining every flat surface looked back but remained mute.

"Mr Hunt, don't be so rough with her," scolded Ruth Tyler, coming in behind them.

Perhaps an ally. "Mrs Tyler, what's going on?" Alex asked, her gaze imploring for help.

But the older woman only filled a teacup for her and gave her both the cup and a sweet smile. "It's best that you stay here, pet. We can't be too careful."

Alex hadn't sensed any danger at all when Mrs Tyler had opened the door and welcomed her in. Only to be grabbed by strong hands from behind the door and hustled into the lounge. Gene's familiar scent and bulk. The betrayal was complete. She needed to remain focused to resolve this situation with a positive outcome, but all she wanted to do was kick that big bastard in the shin until he went red-faced and teary like a little ginger-haired girl.

Alex noticed that there was another woman in the room, back in the shadows by a curtained window. But she was silent, paying no attention to Alex. Nor was Gene; he munched on biscuits like a starving man, and Alex realised that her salad hadn't done much for her appetite either. She reached for a pink wafer.

"This'll be simple," Gene said with satisfaction. "'er daughter's birthday's in two weeks and I'll just keep 'er here until it's over. Then she'll be safe."

"Gene Hunt doesn't run," Heather suddenly barked, her voice deep.

Gene pouted. "Well, this's not about me, yeah. If it was, I'd go out guns blazin'. Shootout in front of the saloon—"

"Now, that's just silly," Ruth said, and took a sip of her tea. "There're no cowboys anymore, luv. No place to keep a horse in Manchester."

Gene looked outraged.

Alex's head throbbed. She'd fallen down a rabbit hole and was at some surreal tea party. Still, she had to try. "I'm sorry, but may I be introduced?" She nodded to Heather.

"She'll not remember you ten minutes from now," Ruth said with a smile. "It's my sister, Heather."

Alex was desperate to build some sort of rapport. "Perhaps she wishes to know who I am. To feel comfortable."

"She knows who you are," Ruth assured Alex. Rising, she carried the teapot off for a refill.

Deciding that she needed to focus on one of these disturbed people at a time, Alex turned to Gene and gave him a reassuring smile. "You believe that someone wants to harm me?"

He grunted and peered at her from under his brows, giving her nothing but a spray of pink wafer crumbs as his jaws worked. Alex saw a man whom she hadn't glimpsed since finding him in the train tunnel. He was the Gene Hunt from Sam's description—arrogant, single-minded, and domineering. Perhaps it was the handcuffs. It was as though she could feel his thundering pulse through the slender chain.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she said, "That's very...nice...that you want to protect me," and became earnest when she explained, "but I must return to work. There's a murderer on the streets, and if he's going to keep to form, he'll kill again soon."

Gene only shook his head, not budging. "It's you he's after."

"I don't match the victim profile though," she reminded him. "It will be someone else."

His face set in a petulant expression, Gene reached for another biscuit, yanking Alex's arm off her chair arm.

"Oi," she exclaimed, her patience finally cracking.

"Prefer Fine Fare Garibaldis meself," bellowed Heather.

Alex lowered her voice. "Gene, this job is your life. It's mine too. Don't keep me from doing it."

"It stops here. Now," he said stubbornly.

Her temper flared higher and her negotiation training fled. "That's simply irrational, Gene! Even if I'm someone's target, it doesn't matter. I must get back to the Yard. You can't hold me here; I'll be missed—" She'd made a strategic error.

His eyes narrowed. "Damn, you're right. Gimme your mobile."

When she didn't move, he came over the chair's arm to start rummaging through her pockets. They wrestled breathlessly for a few moments, handcuffs clanking, her gasps of protest ignored by both Gene and Heather. She'd always thought that she was a strong woman, but when he wanted to overpower her, he did it easily.

He fished out her mobile and his, placing them on the table. Ruth returned and noticed them. "Best turn those off, Gene. They can track her with the signal."

"Son of a bitch," he growled, fumbling with the buttons on the phones. Ruth took one and showed him. Intrigued by his ignorance, Alex watched this exchange.

"She's right, Gene." Ruth settled in the chair beside Alex. "The authorities will be looking for her soon."

"We'll just hide out here," he said stubbornly.

"It's not going to work," Alex said, grasping on some leverage. "Sam Tyler's file is back at my house. It'll be found and we'll be tracked."

He tried to fold his arms, pulling her hand towards him. "Bugger," he muttered, and she didn't know if he meant the fact that he couldn't cross his arms, or their situation.

"Time for the news," Heather announced. "Important update tonight."

Looking at the clock, Ruth corrected her sister. "Not for another hour, dear."

"Just put the telly on, Mrs Tyler," Gene said, "keep her from gabbin' at us. I need to think of a plan."

The walnut-cased set was an old tube television, and took a moment for the picture to warm up and come into focus. Rather than the newsreader at his desk, the scene was of another lounge furnished with out-dated pieces. It was less cluttered than the one that they were in, but there were children's toys scattered around.

A dark-haired girl of about six came across the bottom of the screen, running a little red car along the sofa cushions, making a motor sound.

"Genevieve," called a woman's voice from outside their view, "what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Mum," the girl replied, but now drove the car across the coffee table, the tiny plastic tyres scraping along the wood veneer.

"Vivie, best stop that." Hands scooted the girl away and a man who looked much like Sam Tyler sat to face the camera. He was about a dozen years older than Alex remembered him, his longer hair now salt and pepper and with a trim greying beard. She gasped aloud; she appeared to be the only one in the room not shocked.

Ruth smiled. "Hello, my darling," she said to the television.

"Hi, Mum. How are you tonight?" the man said.

Gene exploded. "Bloody hell, I've been waiting for a message the whole time I've been in this crazy place!" He glowered at Alex. "Your damn flat screen TV's—'ow can anyone fit into one?"

Her head snapped back and forth between the television and Gene.

"Leave her be, Guv," Sam said comfortably.

"Right." Gene pushed back in his chair, petulant. Since he couldn't fold his arms, he tucked his free hand under his restrained arm's pit.

Sam kept at his friend. "Don't be in one of your moods either."

"Need a drink," Gene admitted.

"Mum, have you got a spot of something for Gene? You know, for medicinal purposes."

Ruth bustled off, but Gene wasn't placated. "Where're you at, anyway? You're to be on a fluffy cloud, playin' a 'arp. Don't tell me that the final stop is really a semi in Didsbury with a damn poodle shitting up the garden."

"Welsh corgi, actually," said Sam.

"Nancy boy," groaned Gene.

Returning with a small glass that held a splash of whiskey in the bottom, Ruth settled back in her chair. Gene downed the drink in a single gulp.

Sam turned his attention to Alex, noticing the handcuffs. "What the hell have you done now, Gene?" he said, exasperated. "You big Northern flatfoot—"

"I'm protecting her!" Gene insisted before Alex could speak.

"I'm sorry about this, DI Drake," said Sam with a pained expression.

Alex gave this man one of her surface-only smiles. "Of course," she said.

Then she leaned over to Gene and hissed: "I'm not being fooled by this, DCI Hunt. I don't know if this is some footage you recorded and are playing back—" She looked around the cluttered room for the tell-tale blinking light of some sort of digital device. "Or perhaps Sam had an uncle or cousin who resembled him..."

Ruth said, "I wish he had, pet."

Alex shook her head. Was she sipping from the bottle marked _Drink Me_ rather than tea? She looked suspiciously at her teacup.

Gene told Sam, "Somehow I ended up in this...here with your mum. This murdering scumbag, Nigel Anthony, wants to kill Alex. I'm going to stop it."

Alex cut in: "Gene, you must see sense! If Anthony _is_ the killer, he's not going to target me! I'm a twice as large as the typical victim!"

Of all things, Gene gave her the slow look over. Sam caught that. "You've let it get personal, Guv?"

Pouting, Gene slumped down in his chair. "I've done a good job in my patch. Then I showed up in this place. Looks like it's a new sort of assignment. Why else am I here?"

"Yeah, why are you here?" Sam said with a little smile.

"Don't piss around, Sammy boy," growled Gene, "You're a copper too. Help me out. How can I stop it from happening?"

"I don't know—"

"Bullshit!"

"None of us are in charge here," Ruth said, her low voice managing to stop Gene and Sam from quarrelling. "It's a higher power."

Alex shook her head, trying to absorb everything coming at her so quickly.

The woman outside the camera range called out again. "Sam! Dinner's almost ready!"

"She's got yer bollocks handcuffed as well," Gene noted with one of his quick smiles, lifting his wrist to compare shackles.

Sam leaned forward, his expression serious. "Right. Not much time left, Gene."

"Yeah. So what's the plan?"

"Tell the truth."

"Wot?"

"You've spent all these years blocking out the truth. You had to. But something changed when she came into your world—"

Alex felt a stab at this 'she'. The mysterious Bolly?

"Why did that young constable show up, Gene?" Sam asked, "the one you let only her see."

"Dunno," Gene muttered, focused on his fist balled on his thigh.

"A part of you, that part of you, wanted to have her find you. You led her there."

The woman called out again: "Sam! That dog of yours has gotten in my peonies again!"

"Gotta go—" The man started to rise from the couch.

Gene leaned forward, Alex forgotten. "No, Sam—"

"Now you want my advice?" Sam said, hands on hips. "When I came to you, all I got for it was the shit beaten out of me."

"So that nutter was you," Gene said with a groan.

Sam admonished him again. "Tell her the truth."

"She won't believe it," Gene insisted, giving Alex a quick sideways glance. "She's not believing this right now."

"Only one way to find out." Sam looked at Alex too. "After all, they say the truth will set you free. Maybe it's time to test that."

A woman's skirted hip and thigh appeared on the screen. "That's it. TV off." She crouched down to access the controls. Her open, smiling face filled the screen. "Goodnight, Auntie Heather, Mum, Guv."

"Good night," said the two women.

"Good to see you again, Annie," Gene said just before the screen went dark.

Annie...Sam had talked about a WPC, Annie Cartwright, Alex remembered. How little that he spoke of her told Alex that Annie had meant a great deal to him. He'd talked of her clean, simple beauty, her strength, how her low voice would calm him as he'd been trapped in this insane world...but it appeared as though Alex had just been fed information, all of which was now part of some greater deception...But for what purpose?

Gene was equally lost in thought. Ruth had risen and gone to the kitchen. Clanking noises suggested Ruth was starting supper.

Finally Gene spoke: "Did you drive here?" he asked Alex.

She considered lying, but then didn't see the point. She shook her head.

"No car to get rid of then," Gene mused. "Right. Best get some grub and shut-eye."

Ruth popped her head around the doorjamb. "I'll do some supper, and to bed with you," she said, obviously happy for the company.

After a meal of overcooked beef and starchy vegetables, made all the more frustrating by Gene's refusal to unchain her, which meant they had to help each other cut their food and she was forced to eat with her left hand, Ruth showed them upstairs.

"I only have the one other bedroom, and it's a double," Ruth said as a way of apology. "Heather and I share the single beds across the hall."

Alex stared at her hostess blankly.

"We shared last night," Gene pointed out, raising his eyebrows as though he was suggesting something as innocent as splitting one of those confounded pink wafers.

Her eyes narrowed at him, Alex could only nod. Well, if Gene Hunt thought that he was going to get a complimentary five knuckle shuffle this evening, he was sorely mistaken.

He did unlock her to use the bathroom. She rushed to the small window, but could see no way out, nor anyone in the homes across the back garden. Discouraged, she washed her teeth and face, used the toilet, and finally came out to find him leaning on handrail of the landing, his hand with a cigarette hanging out a cracked window. Ruth must have told him not to smoke in the house. Alex took some grim pleasure knowing that he was going through nicotine withdrawal.

"Took long enough," he griped as he tossed away his butt, and before she could protest, he locked her to the rail and used the bathroom himself.

The small bedroom, dominated by the one bed, was overly warm and stuffy. More china figurines smirked at Alex from the shelves as though mocking her situation.

"It's the oldies," Gene muttered, "always gotta have the heat up to keep it as comfy enough for Dante."

Alex blinked. "I wouldn't expect you to know the classics."

He pouted but didn't respond to that. "Gonna need to strip down." After toeing out of his shoes, he unhandcuffed her long enough to shuck his jacket and drop his pants. His tie, already askew, was draped over the bedpost. He popped open a few buttons, revealing his white vest beneath his blue shirt. She looked away from his long, skinny legs, golden pipe cleaners sticking out from his white boxers.

"Best take your turn," he suggested. He was blocking the door with his broad shoulders. She glanced at the ruffled-curtained window. "Just giving you one more second, then you sleep in your full kit," he said, his lips protruding again.

Setting her own mouth, she pulled her hoodie off over her head, wriggled out of her bra, and pulled off her trainers, leaving her in a cotton shirt and yoga pants. "That's enough, I think," she grumbled.

"No sense getting under the covers," he noted.

"Perhaps if we opened the window," she suggested.

"Best not," was his only response. Pushing her onto the bed, he climbed in beside her and locked the handcuff again.

The mattress was squishy, the pillows great mounds of fluff. There was no way to keep from ending up snug to his body, even without the handcuffs on. Alex lay flat on her back, brooding. She could sense that he was looking at her.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothin'." He rolled onto his back.

She turned to look at him. "Tell me about her."

"Who." There was no question in his voice. He was obviously just playing for time.

"Bolly."

"Why do you want to know?"

She kept it close to the truth. "You feel responsible for losing her; you're obviously transferring your residual anxiety and guilt to me. I want to know more about this woman so I can understand and help you."

He rolled his eyes but didn't reply at for a bit. He finally said: "She was a toff—"

"Really?"

Now he did turn to glare at her. "Yeah."

"It's not that that sort of woman wouldn't find you attractive," she said quickly. "I'm sure many do. I just wouldn't think that you'd want someone..." She floundered. "With those sort of values."

"Right, well, she did bang on a bit about things, sure," he grumped. "So busy yapping, she couldn't see trouble coming right at her. Not that she cared. Had to pull her out of the piss bucket by the scruff of 'er swan-like neck more than once."

"You were her knight in a black wool overcoat?" Alex wondered aloud.

"She needed me." He was looking away, suddenly deeply interested in a pair of china shepherdesses on the whatnot beside the bed. "She could go off with all her hare-brained notions, knowing I'd be there to pick her up. Dozy cow."

Alex heard a note in his voice. She followed it. "But she made up for it in other areas."

A quick smirk and he peered at her out of the corner of his eye. "She was worth lookin' at, yeah."

It hurt more than Alex expected. She wouldn't have asked if she'd thought his lingering gaze while talking about another woman would cause this sort of heartache. She forced herself on. "You worked together?"

"Yeah."

"That must have been difficult."

"Yes and no. She was a damn good copper. But a fruitcake. A right bitch when she wanted to be. Not enough street smarts when she started but picked it up fast. Too much by the book for me taste..."

Alex stopped asking questions; just let him talk. She would expect him to be lost in his memories, but his eyes stayed on her, warm and gentle, reminding her of his touch. She had to pick at the scab.

"She was attractive?"

He snorted. "I thought I'd covered that."

"It's just not something most people say about policewomen."

"You're all supposed to look like you're members of some women's college field hockey team?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, but we should be professional. No one remembers me for my looks after interacting with me." She hadn't intended to talk about herself.

The corner of his mouth quirked. "You don't give yourself credit. I'm sure if you put some effort—"

"Pardon me?" She started to struggle away. She hadn't realised that they were holding hands until that moment. He kept his grip on her hand.

"I don't need to put_ effort _into my appearance for my job," she finally grumbled, not wanting to have another undignified wrestling match with Gene.

He sighed. "No. 'spose not."

"I'm sorry. We weren't talking about me. Bolly was attractive—"

Now his gaze was far away. "First time I saw her, she was dressed as a high-priced prossie in a red skirt so short it barely covered the juiciest peach I've ever seen. It's an impression that stays with a bloke, I'll tell you."

"I bet," Alex said tightly. "So she worked undercover?"

"Guess you could say that."

The knife twisted deeper into her chest. Perhaps it was the husk in his voice as he remembered his lost love, or the way his thumb was unconsciously caressing the back of her hand. He told her about skin-tight jeans and high-heeled boots. His favorite fuzzy blue jumper with a low neckline. How the scent of her leather jacket was still in his senses.

But it was worth it. Intimacy was obviously established. His free arm was draped around her waist and one of his shins had eased between her ankles.

"Think of her now," Alex urged, keeping her voice low. He was staring at her mouth.

"Sure," he rasped.

"How you wouldn't want her to be afraid, or separated from those she loved." Their fingers were twined again and his grip tightened. "Let me go, Gene," she murmured.

The air was thick in the stuffy room. He rolled over and turned out the light, plunging them into darkness. "No."

End ~ Chapter 13

_Evil, evil writers..._


	14. Chapter 14

_A lot of the reviews are coming from guests, which doesn't give us the chance to respond. We just want to thank everyone who's reading and encouraging us with this story. It helps us keep going!_

* * *

The glamorous and sleek by design car flies along the dark bitumen. And it's totally cool, he thinks.

He hates that. The way the new word his latest keeps using pops into his head so easily. He doesn't care about the new ones, he wants to say. But he does. It's guilt edged.

He remembers then, where he's going, and why. The memory that touches. He needs to keep it, hold it. It's an obsession.

He presses his right foot harder to the floor, ignoring the outraged gestures and horns of cars he passes and leaves in his wake. He is tempted to scream out the window that he wouldn't hurt them, couldn't anyway. They are of a different kind.

The farmhouse, with its field and scarecrow and guilt and obsession is close, but further than he thought. Time and space distorts and deranges. At the end of the road, he allows the car to idle for one minute, two, three, before letting it shudder to a stop.

He wanders then, more of a stumble in the debris really, everything as it was before. Before he knew the truth, before he dug up the past, before Bolly.

Before Bolly love is a stranger. Now, it's an obsession.

The scarecrow is still dressed, decorated with a badge of honour, earning its keep by scaring off birds that would pick at non-existent crops. It's noble.

Sunlight breaks through the clouds overhead and shines like destruction. The numbers on the badge glimmer. The same badge that lingers in his pocket. It's brutal.

Soon he finds the shallow grave. Finds the body. An unkind ending to a short life. A life that continues for him. No longer unkind, but false. Like a zombie, he stumbles from chaos to crisis in the same body. Its aging false.

The wind blows, cold, and touches and teases his lips, whispering the memories of love and obsession and want.

* * *

Alex woke with her nose buried in Gene's shoulder. She stifled a groan and started to roll away, only to feel the handcuff bracelet tighten on her wrist. Her anger and resentment flooded back, even as she had the startling realisation that this was the first time she's shared a bed with the same man two nights in a row since she was married.

Blissfully unaware of her fury and confusion, he gently snored.

She calmed. The key...After he'd locked her up again, she'd seen him slip it in his pocket. Carefully, she eased her fingers across his hip and into the opening. Damn, it was deep—

Concentrating, her tongue between her teeth, she slid her hand fully inside—and found something.

It wasn't the key.

She snatched her hand out.

"But you were gettin' warm," Gene rumbled in her ear.

"You bastard," she seethed, glaring into his very wide-awake eyes. "You let me—"

"Oi, what's this? I was just lying 'ere. You're the one grubbing around like my gran goin' after the last ripe tomato at the veg cart."

She jerked upright. "Let me go!"

Just as stubborn as the night before, he said, "No," most definitely.

Flopping onto her back, she stared at the ceiling.

His breath stirred her hair. "This jammy bastard keeps wakin' up with a gorgeous tart all over him," he said comfortably. "Only happens to most blokes in their dreams, but I need to open my eyes for it."

As though he hadn't spoken, Alex repeated, anger punctuating every word: "Let. Me. Go."

Ignoring her demands, he casually asked, "That Harper bird. What's her story?"

Turning her head, Alex glared at him. "Harper bird? You mean DCI Megan Harper?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said impatiently.

"She manages the investigative teams. I'm occasionally assigned to her cases. When we're not working an investigation, she leads administrative reviews. I believe that's where she came from, Discipline and Complaints—D&amp;C." Alex had to laugh. "Always sounded like a gynecological procedure."

She'd have thought he would enjoy this crude joke, but instead, his face was harsh. "Did she ever mention a scumbag name o' Keats?"

Alex thought. "No. He's in D&amp;C?"

"In a manner of speakin'," Gene said.

For some reason, she felt as though she had to give more of an explanation. "DCI Harper's taken a keen interest in my career. She's just trying to help, that's all. Protective of me."

"She reminds me of your mum," he said flatly and it felt as though he'd struck her, but she couldn't comprehend why.

"Let me go," she whispered. It hurt too much to speak any louder.

He ignored her request. "Let's get the show on the road." He swung off the bed and tugged her along as well.

_Discipline and Complaints. _ Gene could feel the heat of Keats' office on the back of his neck. Those bastards were in the real world too, it seemed. This wasn't some vacation given out by the Super for shit and giggles. Not that he'd ever truly hoped that—

"Gene?" Alex put her hand on his arm, taking him out of his thoughts. "We can't do this. You can't keep me handcuffed to you indefinitely."

"You're right about that," he mused. "I'd thought I could just wait out yer girl's birthday, but there's too many dangers. I'm gonna need you on this case too if we've any prayer to get out of this one. We always did work better as a team."

She shook her head as though trying to clear it. "Gene, you've got to trust me. We have to get you help—"

"That's what I'm trying to do," he growled in frustration. "Get your 'elp."

Sam had said to tell the truth. As much as he knew it would sound crazy, Bolly always had been one for fruitcake theories. Surely she'd believe his story. The way she looked at him now, imploring, made him believe this might just work.

And she asked just the right question. "Tell me, Gene. Tell me what you need."

"Here it is," he said, already feeling the burden of fifty years rising from his shoulders. "I'm a dead man."

"You believe that someone is trying to kill you?"

"No, someone is trying to kill you," he said, frustrated already. So intent on her own sense of righteousness, she wasn't listening to him.

"Gene, you've told me that before, but we've seen nothing to suggest this is true," she said gently.

He'd have to give her more. "Sam wasn't deluded. We did meet in my time; I'm dead, he was dead."

When she didn't respond, he had to go on. "I've been dead for over fifty years," he explained, even as he knew he sounded mad.

She spoke carefully. "So you're... A ghost?"

"Not exactly," he muttered. This was harder than he'd ever imagined. It had been so much easier when she'd found the truth and then the words had poured out. His left temple began to throb.

Placing her hand on his chest, she pressed down. "Because you're real, Gene. There's a heartbeat—" She moved her palm to his throat where blood flow jerked nervously under his skin. "A pulse—"

"I know," he said impatiently. "I can't explain it either. This has to be the real world, but I'm here."

"All right," she said slowly. "I can see that you believe what you're telling me is true, but Rob Welton found you in Manchester and arranged for you to join the team."

"That bastard is in on it!"

She raised her free hand to calm him. "Gene, I just want to help."

"You saw Sam on the telly."

"I saw a man who resembles Sam Tyler."

"Ruth told you it was Sam!"

"I'm concerned about Ruth as well. I fear she may be suffering from the same dementia as her sister."

"Bloody hell." Stepping as far away from her as the handcuffs would allow, he ran his free hand through his hair as though he could brush the pain away. He couldn't bring himself to explain how they'd truly met. He'd kept her death from her for three years. The wrenching tears in her voice when she realised that she'd never be with her daughter—he didn't want to hear that again.

She touched his arm once more. "Gene, I'm so concerned about you. I won't allow them to arrest you. Let me get you some help. Please trust me."

He looked down at her. In the caramel swirl depths of her gaze, he didn't see the doubting DI Alex Drake. She was Bolly, begging him to tell her what he was hiding, a constant drumbeat that he had ignored to save her. When the inevitable was unavoidable, he'd allowed himself a moment of selfishness, to give in to desire and want—

Stupid poofter! Because he still wanted...And sod it all, why shouldn't he? "Bolly," he pleaded. He dipped his head, closing his eyelids on that imploring gaze, his mouth seeking hers. She leaned back, he followed, they were falling—

They landed across the mattress, the damn shackles tying them together. Her breath quickened, but not with desire. She tore her mouth free and huffed, "Gene!" in a school mistress tone. Her knee slammed into his groin. He saw stars and bile rose to the back of his throat. Her free hand swung up and the sharp edge chopped against his throat. He gagged, fighting for air.

Only knowing that he had to get away, he rolled off her but wasn't free, their wrists still locked.

"Gene, are you all right?"

He finally found his voice. "Wha' you bloody well think?"

"You were—"

"I was nothing," he said, suddenly tired.

She pushed her hair back. "I can see that you're displacing your feelings for Bolly onto me." Her sharpness made him glance over. Her mouth was tight and angry. "But I won't be some substitute for a woman that you can't have."

Jealous? Of herself? His head hurt even more.

She softened. "Bolly is dead, Gene. Perhaps her death has stressed you to the breaking point," she mused.

"Sod off with yer bloody psychiatry," he sputtered.

"I'm just trying to understand," she said in that voice that women reserved for small children and pudding-dribbling pensioners. He ground his teeth instead of answering.

She was touching him again, dammit. "I want to understand. You say that you're dead. When did this happen?"

He stared at the ceiling. The ache in his head beat in time with his heart. "Second o' June, 1953."

"Gene—"

"Yeah."

"How could that be?"

"I was being a twat. Got what I deserved."

"Gene." It was a whisper from a distance; the blood was too loud in his skull.

"Shot. Head." Seeing his remains had been the toughest thing he'd ever gone through. Even more than even being shot. He wondered if the body was truly there in the farm field. What would happen if they dug it up in this world? Would he disappear? Pain blinded him for a moment. Could he go through it again?

As though she knew where his pain was centred, her fingertips traced along his forehead. "You're fine, Gene. Perfectly fine."

"Do I have to show you? Is that it? Show you a body?" he rasped.

Before she could protest, Ruth Tyler knocked on the door and swung it open.

"Oh my," she said with delight at finding them tangled on the bed. Her bright impish eyes took in the whole scene. They struggled to stand and straighten their clothes.

"Good morning, Mrs Tyler," Gene said sheepishly.

"Breakfast is nearly on," she said as a reply. "You just have time to freshen up," she added, making a prudish euphemism for using the toilet.

"Thank you, Mrs. Tyler," they both parrotted.

When Gene let Alex loose to enter the bathroom, she checked the window. This time, there was a woman in a flat across the mews. Alex waved frantically at her, not daring to cry out. Finally, the older woman raised her head and looked dimly over. She was an ancient East Asian, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. Alex motioned at her, trying to get her to understand, but she did not. Instead, she yanked the curtain shut indignantly, blocking out the view.

Dejected, Alex quickly cleaned up and stormed from the bathroom, freshly angry at Gene. He ignored her mood and took care of his own business quickly.

"Let's go eat. I could gnaw the arse off a low flying duck," he said, nearly dragging her down the stairs to the kitchen.

"Heather's having a lie in," Ruth explained as she placed plates with a full English before her two guests. "Last evening tired her out."

Alex toyed with the eggs before her. "I appreciate your concern," she said neutrally. "But you must see, you cannot keep me here—"

"Not going to," Gene said, slopping HP sauce on his beans. "We need a motor, Ruth. Any ideas?"

Ruth leaned against the worktop and cradled a mug of tea. "Heather's old Citroen is garaged in the mews," she said. "It's in her married name. I've kept the registration up, but the police won't know to look for the plate number."

He could hear the cogs turning in her mind, just as with working a case with Sam.

"You think the coppers will really be on our trail?" he asked her, not as an old woman, but as he would if Sam were there.

"I should think so!" Alex tried to interject.

He ignored her.

"They've got CCTV cameras watching every road and street," Ruth told him, "surely they've reported Alex's disappearance by now."

"Is it on the news?" he asked, then shoved an entire piece of toast dripping with butter into his mouth.

"No." Ruth shook her head. "But they must know that she's missing."

Wiping his greasy fingers on his napkin, Gene glared at Alex from under his brows. "Yeah. Best to get this over with then."

Her hand trembling, Alex took a sip of her tea. It had gone cold and bitter.

Ruth retrieved her handbag. "Take my cash card. If they haven't shut yours off, they'll use it to trace you."

"Flaming Nora," he grumbled. "How do blaggers get over these days? The streets should be clean as a virgin's Sunday knickers!"

"You'll do it," Ruth said with spirit.

"What will we do?" Alex asked. She was almost afraid to find out, but she was just as tired of this sense of not knowing.

Instead of replying, he led her to the back garden so that he could have a smoke. He pulled the receiver from the phone which hung on the kitchen wall by the door.

"Call Molly," he said, "But make it quick."

The call could be traced to Ruth's house, Alex thought with hope as she dialled. Panicked, she realised that he this must mean that he did not plan on returning. But as soon as she heard her daughter's voice, all her fear disappeared.

"Mols," she breathed.

"Mum, why are you calling me on a land line?" Molly asked, obviously horrified at her mother's transgression.

"I'm keeping it real, sweetie," Alex said and wiped a single tear from her cheek. She forced her voice to remain light. "How's classes?"

Molly chattered for a bit and Alex clung to the receiver, leaning against the doorjamb, wreathed in Gene's now familiar smoke.

"Is the Guv still there?" Molly asked.

Alex shot him a dirty look. He tossed away his butt and looked back quizzically. "Yeah, he's right by my side," she grumbled.

"Can I speak to him, please?" Molly said, all business.

Alex considered refusing. But she mustn't worry her daughter. Covering the mouthpiece, she whispered at him, "Don't frighten her."

"The last thing I'll do," Gene promised, completely without contrition.

Cradling the receiver between his head and shoulder, he lit another cigarette. "How's tricks, luv?" he said cheerfully, making Alex grind her teeth.

"I'm well, and you, Guv?" asked Molly.

"Top of the pops," he said.

"You'll be at my birthday?"

"Won't miss it," he said definitely. "I'll be there to blow out the candles."

With that, he handed the phone back to Alex, and gathering her distracted thoughts, tried to wind things up. Still, she found herself keeping Molly on the line until the girl finally begged off, saying she had a class starting soon.

Alex wiped her eyes again as she replaced the receiver.

"No time fer tears," he said gruffly. "We've got to get to business."

Tired of asking what he was planning, she only trailed along at the end of the shackle.

Ruth met them in the dilapidated garage. "I've packed some sandwiches," she offered "Don't think you can go into a caf chained up like that."

"Ta," Gene said. He lay a hand on the dusty gray Citroen's bonnet. "This'll be quite the ride."

"She's filled up too," Ruth offered. "Just in case I have to run Heather to the clinic."

Gene scanned the garage shelves. "I'll need a few things. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," said Ruth, "but I best get back into my sister. You will be careful, won't you, Mr Hunt?"

"No one's going to die today," he promised. But after Mrs Tyler closed the door behind her, Gene opened the boot of the vehicle and added a shovel, a pair of garden gloves, and a roll of large, heavy garbage bags.

Swallowing her terror, Alex pleaded with him, "Gene, you can't do this. If I mean anything to you—"

He peered at her over the boot's lid. "You silly cow! I'm going to show you a body, not kill you!"

"Whose body?" she whispered.

He slammed the lid with finality. "Mine."

~End, Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

In the stillness of the morning, the noise is enough to wake the dead.

At first, the one burst, sudden and tumultuous, echoes along the road until it reaches his body, rousing him into action. He strides towards the flames. They crackle and hiss, warning him to stay away. He wants to disobey; save them, save everyone, save anyone, save himself.

_Your time will come. _

He turns away from hellfire and sees her. She is not the same person, yet he must save her, save himself.

He reaches her, takes her hand, releasing the red teardrop to soar. He hopes it will reach those above, reminding them that mere mortals still bleed.

He lets his thumb stroke along her palm, drags her into his body. He wants to stay like this forever but she just keeps changing. He is pleased he is here in time.

She is her former self, he is but a shadow. His hand, holding hers, with no scars, no wrinkles, no life of crime to mar the smooth skin. The dancing freckles were there before, now again. There is no sign of an age he didn't reach.

She is so small he can lift her, carry her, gently does it. She is not the same person. She just keeps changing. He is but a shadow.

_Your time will come. _

* * *

Alex examined Gene out of the corner of her eye as he merged the Citroen onto the M-6. She must show no concern or fear. Not that he seemed to be paying any attention to her. With her wrist secured to the door handle, he was apparently confident that she had no escape route. He drove very fast, weaving between cars to pass. She just hoped that he'd catch the attention of traffic patrols and they'd be pulled over.

She dared to speak. "So you're saying that when Sam was in the coma, he did actually travel to the 1970's..." His lips twitched, but he didn't reply. "Where you were already dead." She kept her tone level and non-judgmental, almost as though she was making small talk over tea.

He pouted. Finally, he said shortly: "Right."

"Was everyone dead?" she asked, earning a quick worried glance. "I'm just trying to understand," she added.

His, "maybe," was so ridiculously nonchalant that she could tell that he was a terrible liar. Which made the whole situation even odder.

"That makes you a ghost...or an angel?"

He shot her an outraged glare and nearly clipped a wheezing Vauxhall as he moved into its lane. The Citroen, instead of labouring as she would have expected, thrummed along as though excited to be free from its garage.

Pushing out his lips again, Gene barked: "Do I look like an angel?"

It was her turn to remain noncommittal.

"Well I'm not," he grumbled. "And if these scum-filled streets are heaven, God 'elp us all!"

She kept trying to keep him on topic. "But you're dead."

"Yeah."

"How did you die?"

For someone who was obviously deep in psychosis, he was awfully reticent. He only made a harrumphing noise in his throat.

"It wasn't an accident or such? It was in the line of duty?" As bizarre as this all was, she might as well play along.

"Manner of speaking," he said shortly.

She wasn't going to push any longer. She remained silent.

"First week on the job." He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, but squeezed them with his fist instead of lighting one.

"Go ahead and smoke," she encouraged, believing the rush of nicotine would loosen his tongue.

Grateful, he cracked the window before touching the lighter's flame to the end of the cigarette. Blowing out a long column of smoke, he said, his voice raspy. "I walked in on something I shouldn't. Got popped in the head. Just like that."

Alex was surprised at her emotional reaction; it was as though she'd been struck hard in the belly. None of this was true and yet tears pricked at her eyes. Someone had hurt Gene. This unknown person or forces suddenly gained all her hate.

She swallowed hard before speaking again. "We're going to a cemetery?"

"Me grave," he said.

She thought that he wasn't going to say anything else, then he continued: "It was Coronation Day. Disorder all over the borough as everyone got boozed up. Being a freshly hatched bobby, I was to be led around by my senior PC, but he was occupied at the pub, what with the celebrations. That's why I was alone. Investigating suspicious activity at the Pickford's farm."

Despite this all being a fanciful tale, Alex was caught up in it and indignant for Gene. "He shouldn't have left you to it."

Gene shrugged. "I was an idiot, like I said."

"You were a young man, doing your duty."

Perversely, he kept contradicting her. "I was full of piss and vinegar. Trying to prove myself."

Of all things, this made her smile. "I can see that."

His laugh was sharp. "I was on a promise too. Morrison said that he'd pay for my pick of the girls on Fairfield Street after our shift. There was this one little blonde...always wore red. Went by the name of Ruby, I think."

Now Alex felt a different blow to her gut. Raising her chin, she gave a hum of encouragement for him to move on.

He was lost in his memories. With a shake of his head, he added, "So in I went, gun drawn and todger at full mast. Was going to become a man that day in all the sense of the word."

"You believe that you were fatally wounded?" she asked gently.

"Shot right through da noggin; no way out of that." Of all things, he pressed his palm to his forehead as though he felt pain.

She tried to comprehend his delusion. "Then you...awakened?"

"I 'pose. That time is still foggy. I was only reminded about being shot a few years ago. Before then, I lived this dream of a life." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Everything was as the life and career of a Greater Lancaster copper should be, only...it was like I was in charge."

"A promotion?" she suggested.

"No, like if I wanted something to happen, it did. Sure, blaggers robbed, bastards raped, tarts got roughed up, but I'd come out on top." He gave a snort. "Should've known it wasn't real. When does life ever go the way you want?"

"Then Sam arrived-"

"Flapping 'is lips like a spastic dancin', yeah."

Something suddenly struck Alex. "You knew that Sam was dead when I met you."

"He is."

Trying to put all these disjointed pieces together, she furrowed her brow. "You said that you knew my parents. That you'd worked in London."

That tension was back, stiffening his shoulders. "I got transferred," he said shortly.

"But if you're making things happen in this dream of yours, why would you come to London? You don't seem to like it much."

He only glanced over at her quickly before fumbling for another cigarette. Alex felt a chill slide up her spine.

Then she noticed that he was passing the exits for Manchester and the cold fear passed through her limbs.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Not really answering, he told her, "We're just about there."

It began to lightly rain and the thump of the wipers matched the increase of her heartbeat. "Where's...there?" she asked.

This time, he didn't reply.

After a few more silent minutes, Gene took the A666, then a narrow county road for several kilometres, winding past dilapidated farms, before turning onto an unmarked dirt track. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Her fear thumped in her ears. There were no other cars, and the few distant buildings showed no signs of life. The rolling hills were flush with summer grass and flowers, but it felt lonely and ominous under the dark, low clouds.

Finally, when a large farmhouse appeared on a rise, he drove right off the track and into the fallow field, shifting down low. The sturdy vehicle growled and bucked, but made its way up the slope and over the turf. He stopped within a few yards of a lean scarecrow, leaning off its stand as though it was taking a step forward.

"Right." He remained sitting behind the wheel though.

"Gene?" Alex said gently.

He repeated, "right," and got out. But rather than release her, he went to the boot and retrieved the shovel that he'd taken from Ruth's garage. His shoulders hunched under the gentle mist as though it was hail, he made his way up the hillside. Worried, Alex turned the handcuff on her wrist, watching him as he started to dig.

Atop the slate-roofed gable of the farmhouse, perched an iron weathervane shaped like a traveller leaning on a cane. Gene stopped excavating and propped his weight on the shovel handle, mirroring the figure.

He returned to the car. Alex took some comfort in knowing the hole wasn't large enough to hold her body. He opened the door and unlocked the shackle from the door handle.

"Come along then," he said, his gaze remote.

He didn't handcuff her wrists together; just turned away and headed back up the slope, the shovel swinging in his gloved hand. She followed.

He'd cleared away the turf and dug a few inches down in the dark dirt. At first, Alex didn't see anything. Then the dull glow of a round granite stone-it was not a stone. A cheekbone; an empty eye socket.

"Gene," she gasped.

"Yeah." Fumbling in his pocket, he found his cigarette pack. The familiar smoke covered the smell of decaying earth.

"Who is this?" she asked.

"I tol' you," he grumbled before puffing viciously on the cigarette.

"Gene, surely you can't truly believe this. You're the most...real...person that I've ever met."

"'is warrant card is in there," he said, nodding downward. He still wasn't looking at her.

She started to protest again. Then she focused on his strong profile, the rough skin, the sheen of pale stubble on his unshaved cheek. As real and solid as the weathered iron weathervane, and yet giving her as fabulous a tale as a David Bowie song. What was she to think?

Sinking to her knees, she began to carefully move aside the loose loam. A tannin-stained policeman's uniform, its brass buttons tarnished to black. The folder that he sought would be in the left front pocket. Her dirty fingers slid inside. Under a shirt which shredded in her touch like tissue, her fingertips found the clavicle bone. Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, she resumed her search.

The hard edges of a stiff leather case; there it was. She pulled it out and dropped it on the ground so it would fall open without her contaminating the object more than she already had. The photograph was as bright as the day it was taken, a black and white image of a young man, grinning with the glee. He was familiar and a stranger.

She read the inscription. _Police Constable Gene Hunt. _Assigned to the Greater Lancaster police_. _The warrant card was issued in 1953.

"It can't be." She looked up at him. He tossed away his cigarette, half-turned from her.

She couldn't call him that name now. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Bloody hell, woman," he said in exasperation.

Before she could challenge him again, a singular bright glint in the loam caught Alex's eye. Carefully, she pulled it free. It was a chrome epaulet pin from the uniform's shoulder. 6620. Suddenly dizzy, Alex sat down hard on the wet grass.

"You alright?" Gene asked but he sounded as though he was very far away.

She was on another grassy knoll-she could smell the freshly shorn lawn, feel the heat of the blaze engulfing the exploded car...she was being lifted, cradled in strong arms. Looking up, she was blinded by the bright sunlight, blocking out the man's features. The sun caught the shine of a pin on his shoulder-6620.

Blinking to clear her tears, Alex looked up at Gene. "He was there; the constable. How is that possible? If he's dead in this field in 1953?"

"Where?" Gene asked.

"My parents...When they died. He was there. He carried me away." The sun came out from behind a cloud, lighting up the sky. Gene's face fell into shadow, and his wide shoulders were outlined against the thunderclouds. He leaned toward her, and a lock of his hair glowed in the sunlight.

"It was you," she breathed.

He took the pin from her slack hand. "But you remember me as a lad." He sounded confused.

"How can this be?" she whispered. "If he were alive, he couldn't be this boy-" She tapped the open warrant card. "In 1981." When she shook her head, it only made her thoughts swarm more. "But I remember clearly now. It wasn't Evan, it was him..." She said it stronger this time, feeling it was true in her heart even as the logic defied her.

As though he knew her turmoil, he squatted close and told her: "I know it doesn't make sense, Alex, but it's true. This here is my body."

"Gene...It just can't be." Her words were more sob than statement.

"How about that DNA whatsit?" he said. "Get it out of this here carcass, check it against me, and there you go."

She blinked. "Use forensic science to prove the validity of a supernatural occurrence?"

"Wot?" He pouted and she could only laugh, hearing a bit of madness in the peal.

"If you are a ghost or a figment of my imagination, or...whatever you are, why would you have DNA?"

"Dunno, but if it'll make you believe me, it's worth a shot." He headed down to the Citroen and returned with bin bags and gloves.

Seeing her surprise, he snorted. "I've been paying attention at the crime scenes. I'm not Alley Oop riding 'is dinosaur, no matter what you think o' me."

She struggled to her feet. "Right. If we're going to do this, I won't want you to contaminate the samples." She put on the gloves and opened one of the bags. Sweeping aside more dirt, she found the lower half of the body. Delicately unfastening the trousers, her fingers burrowed carefully into the tattered cotton boxers. A strangled noise behind her caught her attention.

"What?" she asked Gene.

The tiniest of grins played on his lips. "Nothin'," he said but his eyes were filled with humour.

She turned back before he could see her own smile.

Carefully, she eased the femur loose and out from the garment.

After placing it in the bag, she opened another. "The skull," she explained, somehow finding the removal of a man's head as he stood watching to be an odd violation. Sure enough, he did turn his back as she lifted the skull and looked it over carefully. There was the massive fatal wound, shattering the left temple. That pain again, nearly overwhelming her. Taking a deep breath, she placed it in the bag and pulled the black plastic over the morbid grin.

Rising, she pulled off the gloves. "I'll need my mobile, Gene."

He finally turned back. "What?" It was as though he'd been miles away.

"I have a friend at the Met's ERU lab who I can convince to do this as a rush job, but I'll need to talk to him."

A quick grin. "He, yeah?"

She held out her hand for him to help her rise. His fingers were strong; his palm warm through the supple leather of his glove. She slid her fingertips under his shirt cuff to feel his thudding pulse.

"Gene-"

"We better get to it," he said gruffly, stepping away. She lifted the bags and carried them back to the vehicle to store them carefully in the boot. He didn't bother to recover the corpse.

After closing the boot, he handed over her mobile. She found Trevor Higgins's number and called. Gene listened closely as she spoke to the forensic scientist, but she didn't betray him. With everything arranged, she held out the phone to him, but Gene just shook his head and went to the driver's side. She got in her own seat too.

With the motor roaring and the heat set high, he didn't shackle her again. The drive back to London was silent, both caught in their thoughts.

End ~ Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

He walks slowly. There's no need to rush. For the young people of today the end is nigh and the darkness now holds no threats. Young men, safe, delivered from evil, the stars above leading them to their leisure.

There will be no more pain of death, forgiveness, vengeance, redemption for the young people of today. He's not so lucky. Temptation still hangs in the shadows. Young girls, not so innocent, give side eyes and show off their knowing smiles. He ignores them. The one he is dreaming of is set to win, with unmatched power.

He sees the doors, the final click of a lighter behind him. Although he tries to keep an air of mystery, he knows he is failing.

They talk for a while, he an interloper, on earth as it is in heaven. But all the young people of today, they are set to win. He can only dream…

Yes he stays, and he dreams. He dreams of staying with she who has unmatched power. The girl he couldn't keep forever. Instead he has the power and the glory, forever and ever.

But he still dreams…

When he dreams of her, she smells of flowers. When he dreams, he can be one of the young men who can do anything. She is one of the young girls with the knowing smiles.

However, not always are they the young people of today.

He can dream of the time when she was just his. He is as he is. And she returns, their love an unmatched power. They no longer die for their sins. Instead they live in death. And in death, they live for pleasure. But only in his dreams...

* * *

Alex wanted Gene to give her more information on the drive back to London, but her attempts to elicit a dialogue got nowhere. He grumbled and grumped like an old walrus but didn't make any actual coherent statements.

She finally started fiddling with the Citroen's old cassette player. Rooting through the glove box, she found mixtapes, the labels faded to unreadable and curling up off the case. Gene watched her out of the corner of his eye, but didn't comment as she pushed one into the player.

A song was winding down—

_You know I'm such a fool for you...You got me wrapped around your finger..._

With a yank of the steering wheel, Gene cut off a puttering Ford.

"Oh, I love this one," murmured Alex when the next song started. All her life, music had been a refuge for her, despite not being able to carry a tune in a bucket. Starting as a girl, alone in her room with a stack of books, listening to all the popular pop songs her little pink tape deck, with Adam Ant watching over her from the wall.

This song was from her college years and had fit her sense of the melodramatic during that time very well.

_I step off the train...I'm walking down your street again...And past your door, but you don't live there anymore...It's years since you've been there...Now you've disappeared somewhere, like outer space__..._

She mouthed along, not caring if it bothered Gene. Rotten plonk, curled up on the end of a futon at an undergrad party, watching all the other kids make out, while she was a gooseberry— Missing...someone...Someone that she hadn't even met yet.

She watched Gene's jaw work as he listened too.

_And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain...Could you be dead?_

_And I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain...Back on the train, I ask why did I come again?_

When he reached over to turn off the stereo, she didn't stop him. Shifting in her seat, she watching the passing scenery as they entered the outskirts of London. Running from the heat, from the billowing smoke, from the dull thud of repeated explosions. She'd been running toward her balloon and now she's fleeing terror. Into his arms. The only time that she'd truly felt secure in her life. The darkness of his uniform was a comfort. Not the cold black of the antique truck that was her usual hiding spot. Away from the fighting, away from the swarming stink of wine and rich hash smoke, away from the closed doors. But they knew where to find her; she could never truly hide from the unsettling emotions. She found refuge in his shoulder, the scent of wool and Old Spice, his low voice murmuring in her ear. She couldn't remember what he said, only that she was safe for the first time in her life...The only time in her life.

They were nearly to the laboratory when Gene spoke, startling her out of her thoughts. "Remember, Alex, that science is your god."

"What do you mean?"

"You believe in science like the pope believes washing grubby feet will get him through the Pearly Gates. Just remember that when you hear the truth."

She started to protest, thinking that he was mocking her, but his expression was completely serious. She finally said, "I want you to be well and safe, no matter what that means." She took note of the hitch in her voice with a detached mind.

"Don't you worry, luv," he said with his usual bravado. "The Gene Genie always comes out on top."

Any pity she may have been feeling for him evaporated. "The car park is at this turn," she said tersely.

oOo

Jules Westphall was taller than Gene, but about half his weight. The young forensic scientist's thatch of red hair stuck out in all directions, seeming to bristle like a hedgehog's spikes. He blinked rapidly from behind thick spectacles.

After a perfunctory greeting to Gene, Jules gushed over Alex until she revealed the black bin bag of remains. "Not exactly proper procedure," Jules noted but he quickly gloved up and removed the skull from the bag, setting it up on the table.

"There wasn't time to call a forensic team," Alex said. "I was as careful as I could be."

"Do we know who our guest is?" Jules asked.

Before Gene could respond, Alex quickly said, "No."

"Cause of death looks to be conclusive," Jules said fussily as he carefully probed the massive cavity at the rear of the skull.

"Yes," Alex said. Gene just shoved his hands in his pockets and played with his lighter in its depths.

The younger man worked the jaw open carefully, peering in at the teeth. "I'd say from the size of the skull and the thickness of the brow, this is likely an adult male, but young. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen. The wisdom teeth are just emerging in the mandible. Probably gave him some occasional pain, but hadn't broken through the gums yet."

Gene rubbed his jaw and Alex shot him a quelling look.

Next, Jules removed the femur bone. "Excellent condition for a DNA sample."

"That's what I thought," Alex said. "Can you get some idea of the age of the remains from this condition?"

"They appear well preserved, so it's hard to say," he said. "The staining lends credence to the theory that it's been in the ground for a length of time—"

Gene smirked at Alex. She gave a tiny shrug.

"And if you see here—" Jules held up the end of leg bone up for Alex's view. "Although the length of the limb suggests a tall, strapping lad, there's signs of malnutrition which would have resulted in joint pain, meaning he lived before National Health and school lunch and milk programs."

When she stole a glance at Gene, his good humour was gone.

"This is tied to the Angel killer?" Jules asked.

"It's important to the investigation," Alex said evasively.

Jules's long, nimble fingers, comical in bright blue gloves, carefully placed the femur on the table beside the skull.

"Meg Harper has an all points bulletin out for you two," Jules said, even as his attention was absorbed by his continued examination of the remains. "Not said what for, but we're to phone if we see either of you."

Gene's gaze darted around the room and he took one menacing step toward Jules. Alex put a hand up to to stop him.

"Is that going to be a problem?" she asked carefully.

Jules looked up vaguely. "DCI Harper has asked me to suppress evidence and change results to suit her investigations on more than one occasion. This will be an occasion when I shall suppress evidence, eh?"

Gene raised his eyebrows. Alex grinned.

"Besides, rumour in the canteen line is that she's on her way out. Or down, one might say. Taking the express elevator to the basement offices."

"What in the world for?" asked Alex.

"Still a killer at large. Smack in the middle of the investigation, her prime investigator has taken a scamper with some Northern flatfoot—" Jules looked back and forth between them with interest.

Alex changed the topic. "Another sample is being dropped off," she said casually. "We need you to compare the DNA of that live sample to these remains."

"And you need it done in an hour?"

"Yes," she said, daring to bat her eyelashes. She ignored Gene's eyes rolling.

Jules blushed even as he he grumbled, "That damn CSI show has a lot to answer for."

"But you can do it?"

"I can do it," he said, already beginning to slice through the femur with an electric saw.

"Let's go out front to wait," Alex said.

"Could do with a smoke," Gene said, following her. She stopped by the supply cabinet, forcing him to stumble to a halt. Assured that he was shielding her from Jules, she snagged a sampling kit, then pushed through the doors.

In the corridor, she told Gene, "Before you sully your mouth with nicotine, swab the inside of your cheek with this." She tore open the protective casing and offered him the swab stick without touching it.

He peered at her suspiciously, but did as she said. When finished, he pushed the swab into the vial and she capped it.

"Go get your cigarette now," she told him.

"What's that about?" he asked.

"You just gave a cell collection of your DNA. It will be compared to the DNA of the remains and you'll see—"

His chin jutted.

"Gene—"

He turned on his heel and strode away.

Legs swinging, she was perched on one of the laboratory tables chatting with Jules when Gene returned.

"Aren't you spraying your own DNA all over with yer lips flappin' like that?" Gene asked grumpily.

"Alex is clean as a whistle," Jules said easily, smiling shyly at her.

Gene found himself rolling his eyes again. Frankly, this Alex was disappointing him in the quality of gents that she pulled. Tossers, fudge-packers and twats, one and all. Danny Moore may have been a prat, but at least he had money and had some wily Cockney smarts like the river rat that he had been.

"It's near dinner time. Let's order some Chinkie," he growled, ignoring her infuriated glare and Jules's rapid blinking. "Me tummy's as empty as the lager cans under the Man United grandstand."

With a curry in his gut, he was considering taking a kip when an alarm on one of the machines started blaring. The scrawny poofter's head snapped around.

"It's ready!" Jules said with some excitement.

Alex had been poking through the noodles in a carton, trying to find some vegetables. She put it aside. She'd been barely able to eat, and now her stomach tightened.

"What is it?" Her voice was thin and tense.

Jules didn't answer. Leaned into his computer screen, he studied the bands of black and grey on the readouts intently.

"I'm goin' fer an after supper smoke," said Gene.

"Don't you want to know the results?" she asked.

"I already know."

She stared at his retreating wide shoulders, encased in his now familiar dark overcoat, as he pushed through the swinging doors.

"Interesting," Jules said behind her.

Screw Gene, she decided. He was probably fleeing, she thought, before the truth could embarrass him. Her only problem was that she'd apparently uncovered another murder, but at least she could turn this one over to the GMP and return to her own caseload.

"What is it?" she asked the scientist.

"They're the same."

"The samples share DNA?"

"No, it's all the same." With a flick of his mouse, Jules moved one set of readings atop the other, aligning the bands of dots and lines.

Leaning in, Alex asked: "What does that mean?"

"They'd have to be identical twins. Your deceased sample and your live sample."

"Couldn't they be father and son? Uncle and nephew?" Blood began to pound in her ears.

"Nope. To be exactly the same, the only explanation is a set of identical twins. Unless you've found a man who's cloned himself." Jules laughed at his little joke.

She blinked, trying to comprehend the unbelievable. "The physical evidence at the scene suggests that the body may have been buried in the 1950's. But now that doesn't seem possible. Could you age the remains for me?"

"You really don't want anything, do you?"

"Please, Jules."

Seeing her distress, he became serious. "I thought you might want that. I've got another sample going over here."

As he transferred the results from the machine with a few clicks of his mouse, Jules explained the process. "For the twentieth century, one of the most accurate methods of age validation we use is bomb radiocarbon, which acted as a large-scale tagging event for all living organisms. In the late 1950s and 60s, nuclear testing raised the atmospheric level of radioactive carbon, which shows up in remains of anyone alive during that time. From the different levels in the sample, I should be able to determine a date within a few years for the victim's death."

After adjusting his glasses, he peered at the computer screen. "Nothing though. Simplest answer, but also the least helpful. Thus, your victim died sometime before the late 1950's. However, as you now know that the other sample is his living twin, from that man's age, you can calculate when the victim was murdered."

"The 1950's," she said, then sat. For these remains to be Gene's twin, Gene himself would need to be in his late sixties at least. As he was the least botoxed man that she'd ever seen, this was impossible.

"Are you alright, Alex?"

She looked up at Jules, blinking as though she'd been struck blind. "I think that you may have just saved my life, Jul."

"Right o'," he said with his best public school boy voice. "How have I done that?" He scratched his head until his hair stood out like a Muppet's fur.

"I...I don't know." She passed her hand over her eyes. "I don't know anything anymore."

Supporting herself on the table, she stood, wavering for a moment.

"You need to get some rest," he suggested.

"Thank you for everything, Jules, seriously." She kissed his cheek lightly, feeling the heat of his blush.

But when she was in the corridor, she didn't know where to go or what to do. She sat on a bench and pulled out her mobile from her pocket. At the same time, her fingers found the shoulder pin from the body's uniform. She turned it in her hand as she put her call through.

"Mols, it's Mummy."

"You sound tired."

"I've just been so busy, but not too busy to miss you."

"When am I coming home?"

"Soon, dear, very soon."

Alex managed to find the energy to chat for a few more minutes, but when she disconnected the call, she cradled her head in her hands, the pin still held tightly in her fingers. In his arms, nestled close...she looked up and yes, it was the face from the dirt-stained warrant card. He'd saved her. She needed him and he was here.

His touch was light on her shoulder. "Alex, wha's wrong?"

She craned her neck to peer up at Gene. "What's right?"

"I know it's a lot—"

"I'm Bolly, aren't I?"

His features went still.

She stood, going toe to toe with him. "I'm Bolly and I'm going to die."

He grabbed her shoulders, now in a tight grip. "You're not goin' anywhere. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you!"

"So you're some sort of time traveller? You've come back to try and save me?"

He looked around quickly. "Hush," he admonished her. "Not 'ere."

"Molly?!"

"Nothing happens to her, I swear. She's safe, everywhere," he promised.

She slumped against him, her arms wrapping around his solid chest.

"You're ready to drop," he mumbled, "let's get you home."

"Home," she said dully.

He drove through the streets, silent, and she had nothing to say either. Unable to stop the racing thoughts and memories; her world was shaken like a Christmas globe, with fragments floating and spinning.

She wanted to be home, but she needed to be out of the car too. She was in the rear seat again, her parents in front, her father fiddling with the cassette player, her balloon was drifting beside the car. Red as the sun during a firestorm—

She jumped from the passenger seat before he could even come to a complete halt.

They were mounting her stairs when Harry Nettles bustled out of the garden flat entrance. "Ah, there you are, Mr Hunt."

Gene had his arm wrapped around Alex, supporting her. "Not now."

"Just wanted to give you the key to the flat. It's finally repaired."

Snagging the key from Harry, Gene hustled Alex on up the stairs.

Inside her flat, he made her sit and then put the kettle on.

"A spot of proper strong tea will sort you right out."

"I doubt that, Gene."

He leaned on a chair, long legs stretched out, and folded his arms. She crossed hers too, and stared at him.

"Wot."

"This is insane."

He shrugged.

"So..." Where to start? "You've come from the future to save my life. A future where I'm shot on Molly's birthday."

He pooched his lips and focused on his shoes' tips. "Right," he finally said.

"But you were here in 1980's too. You knew my parents; Evan. You were there the day my parents died."

He kept staring at his feet.

"Gene?"

"Yeah."

"So you're some sort of guardian angel. My guardian?"

He finally lifted his gaze. He'd always been a shit liar, which held all sorts of irony. But in this moment, he knew there was no way in hell that he could tell Alex what her destiny was, even if he was intent on changing it. So the answer had to be, "Yes."

She stood. "No." Her fingertips traced his face from his sideburn down to the cleft in his chin. "You are my soulmate." The tears burned in her throat, but she had to go on. "You are that person who's been missing every time that I enter a room and find myself looking around, or when I've been sad and alone, you are the arms I've been meant to fall into."

The blue of his eyes went dark. She was learning to read the shifting tides there. "Although it is rather odd to already be in love with a stranger, but it explains how I can feel such attraction to the antithesis of any man to whom I've been drawn."

"Tossers, the lot," he said with spirit, "Alex, truly, you've got shit taste in men."

"Don't I know." Her chuckle was watery. "Even Sam was part of it, eh? He introduced me to you. Your best mate set us up."

His arm slipped around her waist and he focused on her mouth, yet he didn't kiss her.

"My angel," she murmured.

"Stop calling me that," he grumbled, but before he could go on, she closed the gap between their lips. He gasped, drawing their mouths closer. God, she loved kissing this man. And now a lifetime's worth of reservations and barriers were gone, and she could just swim in it, the richness of his gaze, still watching her through half-closed eyes, the brush of his long lashes on her hot cheek, the stroke of his warm tongue on hers, the unspoken language echoed in their grasping palms—pressure and release, stronger now...

She needed to know. Pulling free, she lay her head on his shoulder, nestled between his outstretched legs. When she put a hand on his knee for support, she was surprised to feel his leg quaking. "Tell me about her," she said. "About me. I need to know about us."

"Who?"

"Bolly. When I was her. Just from what you told me before...I guess I go undercover in the future? What year is it?"

He hadn't thought of that. It may not even be this year's birthday. He may have years to save her—or years to lie to her. His leg started to jiggle. "I was wrong, Alex. You aren't Bolly. I made you that way. Remember how I told you that I can control things."

She peeped up at him. "I see. The tight jeans and low-cut tops don't really sound like me, it's true." Something about his guarded expression made her press. "You don't believe that I can be her?"

There she was, warm and yielding in his arms, and Gene couldn't just go with it. He couldn't hurt her with the truth about her parents, about Evan, about his shameful manipulation of her for his own tawdry pleasure. His grip around her middle tightened.

She nipped his jaw. "Come along and I'll show you what I can be."

He closed his eyes briefly, blocking his view down her snug top, at her tight nipples, at her lips, still damp from their kisses. "We weren't lovers." He said the word like it burned his tongue.

"I can't believe that." She stepped away, crossing her arms across her chest.

"We were busy," he blustered, "Job keeps you going, day and night." His white fists shoved deep into his pockets.

Humiliation washed over her. This was when she would usually retreat, from the room, from the flat, from her heart. But this time, she could only gasp, "Don't I mean anything to you, Gene?"

She might as well have slapped him. "It's not that."

"Are we just mates then?"

His features twisted. He obviously couldn't wrap his mind around being friends with a mere bird. Furious, she wanted to bring him down, wipe that frown from his face.

"What is it, Gene? I'm just a job to you? A soul to save and you move on?"

He scrubbed his hair with his fists. "I can't do this."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

He looked at her, stricken. "You know you're the most gorgeous, desirable bird that's walked this world, right?"

Shaking her head in confusion, she didn't know how to respond.

"Well, you are. You deserve to be pleasured more ways than Barbarella. But that's not gonna be by some lad without all his teeth yet. Some shat-assed little tosser, pure as a choir boy." Self-loathing dripped from every word.

"What—Oh," she said slowly. He ducked his head in shame. "Oh!" she repeated, as it fully sunk in.

She rushed to reassure him. "Gene, dear, I've had great sex. That's not what I'm looking for with you."

Closing her eyes, she blocked out his devastated expression. She really was awful at relationships. "I mean, I don't need that from you—"

He stormed out as she floundered for the right thing to say. With the slam of the front door, her flat fell silent.

Until she started cursing. Finally calmed, she headed to her bedroom. As with entering the interview room knowing that she'd only have one chance for a confession, she furiously began her profile of Gene Hunt.

Flinging open the cupboard doors, she pawed through her clothes, even more frantic than when preparing for their date. She'd been dressed like a prostitute when they'd met and he'd good as admitted that he'd had a hand in that. He was on a promise from his Sergeant to be deflowered by a prostitute the night that he was killed. Sam had mentioned his fixation on prostitutes, although he had admitted that he didn't even see him with any, unlike Ray Carling, who Sam had pulled out the back of more than one squad car with his pants down around his ankles.

Normally, Alex had a dim view toward men's use of sex workers, particularly after doing a series of interviews and reports on the industry for the Yard. But she could see how Gene would focus his fear of intimacy and the mystery of women on these easy to access figures. After all, it wasn't like he actually had used one.

When had she worn this leather skirt? She tossed it on the bed. It would do.

oOo

After smoking a couple cigarettes, Gene had gone to the garden flat. He was halfway through a bottle of whiskey. He hadn't had a drink in over twenty-four hours and each sip tasted sweet. Getting royally pissed and wallowing in self-pity sounded like an excellent plan at this juncture.

He was topping off the glass was even empty when there was a knock at the door. Just bloody perfect. Alex Drake wanted to talk some more. Probably examine the psychological reasons why he never got his cherry popped. Hauling himself from the chair, he staggered across the room. Best to tell her to bugger off and get her out of his life once and for all.

Life, what life? He stopped. She knocked again, a bit more insistent.

"Alright, alright." He yanked the door open.

It wasn't Alex.

"Did someone call for a date?" asked the woman in the shadowy entry.

He opened his mouth but couldn't speak.

She took another step closer. A mass of curls around a done up face, all red lips, heavy silver lids, bright cheeks. Her chest rose with her fast breaths, lifting her pale breasts out of the gold lame blouse that hung open, not even covering a red satin bra. Her stomach was bare; he could see her breathing fluttering her white skin. Legs, legs, legs, atop high heels. The black stockings, just as he remembered, their tops peeping out from the impossibly short black leather skirt. He finally finished his long look.

"Bolly."

"That's what they call me. What's your name?"

He stared.

"John?"

Giving a snort, he shook his head. "No, you can call me Guv."

"Sure." For just a moment, her eyes widened and he could see the fear, but then her long lashes dropped, and it was the cat's gaze of supreme confidence. "You gonna let me come in then, Guv?"

He realised that he was clinging to the door jamb, blocking the entrance. It was the only thing holding him up. Between the booze and the lack of sleep, the scent of her musk and the ivory sheen of her exposed tits, he could barely stand. Or speak.

Pushing back, he straightened and dropped his arm. "Come on in," he managed to croak.

~ end Chapter 16

E/N: Yeah, finally. We're finally there.


	17. Chapter 17

_I have no shame in admitting that I'm a smut scrolling reader, so I'll make it easy for similar readers. Finally. A year after starting, smut lies this way!_

* * *

She's looking in the mirror, making plans while she's combing her hair, grey this time to match the character she was playing. No one can see her though. The real her. The one who wants to win, desires revenge, must rule heaven and earth as well as hell.

She's invisible now but she's counting down. She's a mathematician; counting daily, counting forever, those tallied. Truth be told, she'd lost too many to the blue-eyed collection of dust and shadows.

She rises, takes a step back from the vacant chair. She wipes the dust from a cup and pours a drink, imbibes the blood of their bodies from a chalice she's laced with gold. Gold like the angel's hair. He must bleed too.

Years are for counting, and too many generations, Orion has stayed bright in the sky. Years are for stealing, and too many times he's swooped in and saved too many. Too many times he's taken back from her what she swore to steal.

This time she'll be the victor. This time she'll make sure she closes the curtain to keep in the shade. Fathers will bleed when the sons both die for her. She's let the dog loose on the street. This son will bring down the curtain over the night sky, shutting out the stars' light.

Now one head of her Cerberus grins, his smile as sharp as cold clean glass and a razor blade. A simple reflection can be too revealing. She's invisible now and he's a reflection of the past looking through the mirror, ready to find his revenge, ready for her salvation. Ready to pull this golden angel's wings off like a struggling fly.

* * *

One of the prostitutes that Alex had interviewed told her, "Two percent of the punters are nasty bastards. All the others just want a bird to tell them what to do."

Never once had Gene given her the impression that he wanted to be told what to do, but she had to give it a try.

She brushed past him, through the cloud of his scent, whiskey and working man's cologne. Where anyone else would have changed into jeans and a jumper, Gene was in his suit trousers and dress shirt, his tie askew but still on. As she fought her uncertainty, she realised his clothing was a very effective barrier against any intimacy. She'd have to be as strong.

"Sit down," she ordered, two clipped words. Her head swam as she held her breath, then he took one slow step backward until his legs hit the sofa. But he didn't sit.

He was looking at her from head to toe, his expression inscrutable. He didn't tell her to leave, nor did he make any move to grab her. She had to find more courage.

Putting her palm to his chest, she gave a shove. He fell back to the seat with an "oof!" She fought the impulse to apologise. She had to stay in character.

"You don't have to say anything, or do anything," she said as she sank to her knees on the cushion, straddling his thighs.

His mouth fell open but only a tiny strangled noise escaped as she shrugged off her sheer blouse. "Maybe...just whistle," she murmured, sliding his tie free.

He may not be able to speak, but his whistle was low and long as he goggled at her breasts straining in the red satin bra. She fought a hysterical giggle. "Hey, that's my line," she chastised him.

Like a shy little creature, his fingers were lightly tapping at her knee. "Sure, that's included," she encouraged, covering his hand with hers and guiding it up her thigh. Together, they pushed her skirt up. She could feel his fingers start to tremble when his thumb stroked her bare lower belly.

Leaning into him, she whispered in his ear, "No, I'm not wearing any," then gave his earlobe a suckle.

Seeing he wasn't going to traverse further, she reached behind and unfastened her bra, shrugging it off her shoulders to tangle at her elbows. She didn't dare let go of his hand. His thumb was slowly circling her belly button as though he was getting up his courage.

In the dim room, his eyes shimmered as he stared at her bare breasts. It was taking all her control not to jump up and retreat across the room.

"It's full-service," she promised, rising on her knees, still not releasing his hand. Instead, she guided his slack mouth to her chest, where he took the initiative. So delicately that her head lolled back in delicious agony, he looped his tongue around her nipple. Her fingers gripped his hair hard, encouraging him to suck harder.

When she groaned approval, he quickly released her and buried his nose between her breasts. His stubbled cheeks made her already sensitive skin pebble. "You' tits smell so fucking grand," he said thickly.

Fighting her sense of humour once more, that wanted to make some crack about finding a way to bottle eau d'bap, she took his face in her hands again, directing him back to his task, letting him know that he could do more, harder, there, right there—

Her voice was piercingly loud in the still room, and she took a deep breath to slow down. But he was taking her tutelage to heart, his lips and tongue working at her breasts, moving back and forth as though unsure which would taste better.

Onward; she had to push him along—covering his hand with hers, she slid his fingers between her legs and through her folds.

His gasp was loud, and his gaze shot up, her breast dropping free from his mouth. "That's...not...wot I expected," he stammered.

Already slick and swollen, her breathing uneven, Alex fought for control. "Me either," she confessed, knowing they weren't talking about the same thing but not caring one whit.

"I know we're not supposed to kiss," she mumbled and kissed him anyway, needing the familiar depths of his mouth.

She led one of his long fingers inside her, and pressed his thumb on her clit, showing him just the right amount of pressure. Her tongue mimicked their ministrations, stroking his lazily.

He tore his mouth free to garble, "Fuck, Alex."

"That's the general idea," she moaned, lost in riding his hand. Their fingers still together, she guided him to rub right...there...

"God, Gene," she gasped against his heated cheek, "I can't—"

"I can't either," he whimpered. Vaguely she realised that he was still fully dressed, could feel his twitching erection under her thigh but she was at that moment of complete and utter selfishness. If she didn't come this very instant—

"It's you—you, Gene." She locked her gaze with his. She never did this with a man, being open and vulnerable. With his expression of wonder and a bit of alarm, she should have been mortified. Instead, she just allowed it to happen. Rather than one sudden jolt of relief, her orgasm bloomed out from his touch, hot red, then golden yellow warmth, until the final shock white shook her limbs and cracked her spine.

Lost, she flopped down onto his chest, gently bringing his hand to rest of her thigh. Slowly, she came back into her body. Nestling her head under his chin, she listened to his thundering heartbeat, which reminded her—

"Oh my God, Gene, I'm so sorry!" She sat bolt upright, causing him to wince in pain. Patting his shoulder ineffectively, she kept saying, "Sorry. Sorry."

"No problem," he said, giving her a smile that only lifted one side of his mouth.

She covered her face with her hands. "I can't bloody well do anything right with a man. This was supposed to be about you—"

"I'm used to you running ahead without me."

Now she slapped his shoulder. "Bastard," she said without rancour. Scrambling up, she managed to stand, only having to grab his thigh once for support.

"Careful, you dozy mare, that gun is cocked and ready to go off," he warned, shifting in his seat.

"Right," she said, looking around the room. To cover her mortification, she slipped into Detective Inspector mode. "Where's that bed?"

He tipped his head. "In the wall."

"Right," she repeated, tossing aside her bra. The ridiculous leather skirt was up around her waist anyway, so she wiggled it down enough to unzip and shuck that as well, leaving her in nothing but the black stockings, suspenders, and her patent leather black heels, which somehow hadn't slipped off during a head-exploding climax.

When she tried to tug the bed down though, it was stuck. "You going to help?" she groused at Gene.

He was leaned over, enjoying the view of her up on her toes to prise at the bed's framework. "Can't even stand upright, luv," he admitted, "and you'll get it. Just try harder."

Hands on hips, she was about ready to berate him when all her fight was lost. His hair stood on end, his pretty eyes glowed, and his golden throat, exposed in his open collar, called to her.

"Get over here," she told him, with more enticement than command this time.

He managed to stand, and attempted to swagger to her side, but had to shake his leg, ruining the effect. He was staring at her tits again. Truly, this man was single-minded.

"Bed," she reminded him.

"Bed," he mumbled, yanking it down while never taking his gaze from her chest.

Irritated, she barked, "You have too many clothes on."

"'spose so." His eyes shifted to his feet. The shy boy was back.

She returned to being a prossie. "No worries, I offer the complete package." This time she managed a passable purr to her words. She made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, thankful that the cuffs were already loose. Sliding the shirt off, she had to chase its path with her mouth along his smooth, warm skin. When her tongue ran across one of his nipples, he cursed but didn't retreat. With a smirk, she attacked the other to make him twitch and mutter incoherently before traversing lower. Her lips found a few golden hairs just above his navel, and his whimper and jerk of his hips reminded her of the task at hand.

Returning to his mouth, she pulled him into a deep kiss while undoing his belt and trouser button. Kissing seemed to calm him after her assault. He even dared to cradle one of her breasts in his palm, his thumb playing with the nipple.

"Now you've got it," she encouraged as she nipped at his lower lip.

"Not a total nancy boy," he grumbled, putting his free hand over hers to slide down his zip. It was a careful operation, considering the large obstruction in his boxers.

She finally allowed a giggle to escape. "Like defusing a bomb."

"Stay away from the red wire," he warned.

Deciding to move things along, she yanked both trousers and boxers down in one dramatic gesture, like a magician whisking a tablecloth from under a full tea service, "Step," was her only response.

He obeyed, leaving him naked but for his socks. "Now you're overdressed," he pointed out, staring off over her shoulder, obviously deeply embarrassed.

She dragged her gaze up from his erection and that fascination coupled with excitement but just a bit of revulsion that a penis always gave her, even one as impressive as his. An upmarket escort, that's what she had to channel.

Narrowing her eyes, she sank down to the edge of the bed and raised one foot toward him. "I guess you'll have to do something about that." The line was right, but rather breathless. His hair was doing that thing were it flopped over his brow when he looked down at her, and his eyes were soft and yearning.

After a heart-stopping pause, he slipped her shoe off, then tossed it over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish. Relieved that he was playing along, she offered him the other foot. When that shoe was off, he cradled her foot against his chest, his thumb caressing the arch, still watching her.

This was the most difficult thing that she'd ever done. Forcing herself to remain calm, she lay back, fighting the urge to press her thighs together and fold her arms across her chest. Exposed, she waited.

"Bloody gorgeous," he replied as though she'd spoken a question. His hand slid down her leg, taking a moment to cup her knee, then further to unsnap one of the suspenders' fasteners, concentrating on the task with his brow furrowed awfully. Worried that he may lose his nerve, she quickly undid the others so he could slide the black stockings off. Sure enough, he took a step back, his face shadowed, and clasped his hands at his waist, ridiculously shielding his erection.

She couldn't help it; the psychologist had to speak. "Gene, how do you feel about this?"

"Feel? How do I feel? Horny as hell," he growled, shaking his head as if a great bear beset by bees.

"Alright," she said carefully.

"Shit, don't use those looney tunes ways with me. Not me."

She rolled to her side, taking away his view of all the holy lands. "What do you mean?"

"Like I'm yer patient." He went to find his drink and topped it off. Maybe give himself a whiskey dick and get out of this situation. Here he'd thought that he'd been drinking to forget all the loss and pain of being a walking dead man, and he suddenly realised it was probably to salve the worse set of blue balls to ever hang between a man's legs.

"No, you're not," she agreed softly. "You're my...my constant. I know now. You were the only person who ever has cared for me, truly."

He sat in on the sofa again, not looking at her. "Wot about Evan?"

"What about him?" She tugged the blanket loose from the mattress and covered herself, feeling very vulnerable. "You know, Gene, once again, I'm getting that distinct impression that you're not that interested."

"This is why I don't like to talk about this." He waved his arm in her direction but still didn't look. Truth was, his knackers were getting cold too but he didn't want to show his weakness by grabbing his clothes. "And you don't know. I was always interested. Always. You were the one who didn't—"

"I didn't?" Curious, she rose like Venus from the waves, arranging the blanket over her lap.

Her movement drew his gaze. He'd look at her glorious tits like staring into the sun until struck blind. He still wondered if she was a creation of the Chief Super, because surely no woman had been born on this earth with puppies like—

"Gene?"

"Eh?"

"In the other time, I rejected you?" She could see now that this may well be where his reluctance lay, rather than just his lack of experience. He may not have a flesh and bone body to call his own, but his pride was alive and kicking like a bull moose.

He gave a half-hearted shrug and drained his glass. He could still smell her on his fingers. Shit, this was all too much. Starting to rise to refill his drink, he fell back onto the seat. "Yeah."

"I find that hard to believe."

He snorted. "Because I fit right in with your posh lot, you'd be thrilled to walk into any party on my arm, I can order all those pranny dishes in French—"

She interrupted. "I respect you as a copper. You make me laugh, sometimes on purpose. You make me think beyond my preconceptions. Molly likes you a great deal." That earned a flash of the whites of his eyes. She might as well go all in. "And that's the fastest and easiest orgasm I've achieved since...Well, I can't remember when. So, DCI Hunt, I'm interested to see what else you can do."

He buried his chin in his chest, still sulking. "You 'ad to show me all that. Useless git—"

Huffing a great sigh, she stopped him right there. "You're doing a very neat job of avoiding the question. What exactly happened? You said that we worked together for years but were too busy to have sex. When we obviously meant a great deal to each other, were deeply attracted. I refuse to believe that because you don't know your fish fork from your salad fork, I had rebuffed you."

"You offered once," he muttered, almost too low for her to hear.

"Really," she said, triumphant.

"You were drunk. I wouldn't take advantage."

"See, you are a gentleman," she said smugly.

He squinted at her. "An' I wasn't sure you were real," he admitted. "Thought you were a test of me commitment. I'd gotten into some trouble over Sam, you see."

She giggled, tossing her head forward, and that cascade of achingly familiar curls made his heart skip. "I like that idea. Mary Magdalene, yeah?"

"I'm no Jesus," he grumped.

"Well then," she murmured, hoping to bring him back to the matter at hand.

He sighed deeply and put aside his empty glass but didn't rise.

"I'm serious, Gene. If you don't want to do this, for any reason—"

After toeing off his socks, he struggled to his feet. "No, no, I wanna." He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic though.

She shouldn't say anything, don't say anything— "I have to wonder if you're avoiding this because you fear that your anticipation, your fantasies, can never be matched by the reality of sex with me. And once shattered, we'll lose what we've had—"

He stood over her. His cock was half erect again, bobbing around at nose level with her, which should make this entire conversation ridiculous. His eyes had changed to tropical lagoon blue; how did he do that? With his broad thumb, he stroked under his lower lip as he looked her over slowly, exhibiting that ownership that she couldn't summon an ounce of disgust over, much to her horror.

"Nah," he said quietly.

"Okay." She gulped and put aside the blanket. "I guess we'll get to it then."

He managed to summon some humour. "Jus' be gentle with me."

She was going to rebuke him yet again, then saw the twinkle in those eyes. She'd take care of that—finally, finally, she took him in hand, stroking his length from base to tip in one strong motion. His knees buckled. "No, I don't think that I shall," she said definitely, continuing to work his cock. Her grip was just this side of painful and he snivelled like a puppy getting its back scratched.

"Okay," he whined. "But you best not do too muc' of that, or this will all be over in a disgraceful second."

"Come 'ere then," she said, bringing him down to the mattress and pushing him over onto his back. Once he was settled, her hand immediately went back to his erection.

His chest rose and fell like he'd run a hundred miles. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "Not kidding."

"Alright, but you know what they say—" Snuggling close, she draped her leg over his quivering thighs. Her thumb slowly circled the tip, lubricating the tender skin. Lips to his ears, she finished with, "Only gotta stay on for eight seconds to get a prize."

His head snapped around to glare at her. She gave him one of those soft smiles that always made him willing to slam his todger in a door for her. Which he sensed may be just what he was in for.

"Let me...Give you this." She choked, then recovered. "It's important to me."

"If you insist." Just look at her tits, you poofter, he admonished himself and was pleased that his hand was reasonably steady as he cupped one of her breasts, lifting its weight to his mouth.

From that little sound at the back of her throat, she seemed to appreciate his effort. He liked it; never having heard it before. But then she reached lower and squeezed his already tight balls.

He rolled away quickly. "Not for 'andling by the punters," he scolded.

Propping her head on her hand, she said, "Duly noted," fighting a smile.

"Everything just feels...too..." His jaw clenched, biting down on the words.

Her grin faded. "I can imagine." Patting his shoulder awkwardly, she suggested, "Perhaps foreplay really isn't necessary."

"I think not." He was staring at the ceiling, fighting the humiliation rising like bile in his throat. Mercifully, she didn't touch him again, in fact, she was touching herself. The wet sounds caused his head to snap around to watch. Now that he knew what _it _felt like, the heat, the slick and sticky, the scent that wafted to him— At just the thought of this, he decided right then and there that he'd never be able to walk properly again, being bent over so his third leg could hobble along with the rest.

Her fingers now glistening, she reached for him again, touching him just lightly enough to coat his shaft. "There we go," she murmured, pressing gentle kisses at the corners of his trembling mouth.

"Right," he gasped, not even sure what he was agreeing to. She needed him to do something; he understood the principle. Get the right old Sergeant Rock tucked into his panda—

Just as he'd foretold, she was heading off without him. Rolling him onto his back, she straddled his thighs once more. Hot, sweat-sheened skin sliding over his, her bright teeth nipping hard at his chin, distracting him with the pain, his hips rose to meet her descent, and they both groaned in unison, equally shocked as she hit bottom.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed.

So foggy that he could barely focus, he gasped, "Wot?"

"Objects may be larger than they appear in the mirror," she panted out, rising slightly on her knees.

"Wot," he near sobbed. No matter how hard that he'd banged his knob in his fist, he'd never been held this tight and hot. He was terrified of her moving again, and equally desperate for her to do so. "Alex," he begged.

"I know," she whimpered, making gentle circles with her hips, easing them both off the edge of the cliff. Supporting her weight with a hand to his chest, she dared to rise and fall again. "You okay?" she asked.

He could only watch. No blue flick he'd ever seen could have prepared him for this experience. Knowing that he was crying, and utterly ashamed, he blinked away the tears and just kept watching. Yes, that was his Alex, her panther eyes glowing out the dimness, her own tears balanced on her eyelashes, her curls now a tangle around her face, clinging to her damp cheeks. His newfound delight, her bare breasts swinging with their movement, the bright nipples, painfully tight, just requiring his soothing touch—right on it, mate. He even dared to look lower, to the true mysteries just revealed to him, to see his dark cock appear and disappear into the nest of gold and brown curls.

Taking one of his hands, she pressed it against her lower belly. "Right...there," she gasped. "You're right there."

To his infinite shame, that's all it took. With a growl, he arched from the bed, the shadowy room suddenly exploding with light, his babbling cries, as a shock harsher than that bloody Taser hit him low in his back, to pulse again and again through his cock. He'd come countless times before but never with this soul-draining power.

Alex had let go of his hand to furiously rub at the spot that he could vaguely remember caused her to come earlier. Although spent, his cock remained hard, buried deep. His bones had gone liquid; he couldn't even lift a finger to assist. Only managing a silly grin, he lay there as she writhed and bucked until her head snapped back, and she groaned so deep that he could feel the vibration in his balls. "Shit, yeah," she said rather less than eloquently. He took an odd satisfaction in making this Oxbridge-educated bird fall off her high perch.

Just as if he'd willed it, she landed on his chest like tumbling from a treetop. "Oh, Gene," she mumbled.

"That's me," he croaked.

"I..." One golden eye peeked at him from under the curls. "Was that alright?"

"Points off fer going after the bollocks."

After crawling off him, she smacked his bare flank hard.

"Ow! Just for yer notes, I'm not into that sort o' rough trade either."

"That wasn't meant to arouse. It was for being a right bastard." But she snuggled close, one arm and leg over him possessively. Such an odd sensation to feel this comfortable afterwards. Normally she'd be looking for excuses to boot the bloke out.

He desperately needed a fag and a washup. He felt sticky all over, and his arse seemed to be in a puddle of some sort. He didn't think either of them had taken a piss, but the last few minutes were still a blur of jumbled images comprised of vivid ecstasy and crushing embarrassment. He had tears staining his cheeks; could he wipe those away without her noticing?

Exhausted, she kissed his neck, letting her lips rest there. "Do you sleep on the right or the left?" she asked.

"In the middle," he said, clipped.

"Alright," she said slowly.

"Not really sleepy though. Could do with a shower. Feel all done up." He shifted, trying to get out of the wet spot, but it pulled him from her arms.

She sat up. "Well, right, yes. That's a good idea. Think I'll head home then." She was out of the bed in a shot, snatching up her few garments with jerky motions.

Gripping the blanket in white fists, he watched her tug on her ridiculous clothing, the tiny skirt barely covering her peachy cheeks and the blouse transparent enough for him to see her dark nipples. Incredibly, desire stirred in his groin. "If yah want," he muttered.

She stopped by the door and looked back at him. "Well?" she challenged.

He knew he was supposed to say something. He'd played out shagging her a million times in a thousand different ways. He hadn't rehearsed talking to her. "Ta," he offered.

She slammed the door so hard that the entire flat shook.

He fell back on the mattress and stared at the ceiling for a long time, then scrubbed his face with his palms. Finally, he crawled out and ducked into the small bathroom, only to see the shower caddy empty. "Bugger." His things were upstairs. He glanced up at the ceiling again. Better have that fag first before facing her wrath.

Out in the garden, in just his crumpled trousers and bare feet, he leant on the teak bench and looked at her flat windows. A solitary light was on in the bedroom and the curtains were pulled closed, blocking his view. He smoked three cigarettes in rapid succession until he was coughing, staggering a bit in the process. His legs were hollow and weak, as though that's where he'd been storing it all up these fifty years. Another thing that hadn't been in his fervoured imaginings about having sex—feeling as though he'd been run over by a transit van. He was going to sit when it began to rain, peppering his skin like ice. Perfect. Head drooping, he went back inside.

Alex sat at her dressing table, combing the remaining curl from her wet hair. Perhaps it was for the best for them to go off to their respective corners. Gene Hunt had felt like an itch she'd wanted to scratch since meeting him, contrary to her usual taste in men. Then the past twenty-four hours had shattered her entire worldview and belief system, leaving just... Him. Being with him had felt like the right thing, the most necessary thing to do, and now...She didn't know what came next.

But. The wanker should have been bloody grateful! He'd come through time and space to shag her, only to toss her out! She stopped to blot her eyes with a tissue. These damn snarls were making her cry.

He'd been right about one thing, though. The shower had felt good. And since he obviously found the whole encounter so revolting, it was best for her to do the necessary cleanup out of his view. She'd decided that protection against STI's wasn't needed with a supernatural being, but she was still glad that she had a coil. She frowned at her reflection. But would that work against God's chosen one's sperm? Would she have a bouncing baby demi-god in nine months for her troubles? She gave a hysterical laugh, then winced in pain.

Her knees were killing her and she was sore, hissing every time she shifted on the chair. Good thing that they hadn't gone at it all night as she'd anticipated—he could just piss off, the twat! She growled, yanking at another tangle in her hair.

"Careful there," came his low voice from the doorway.

She turned quickly, her pain forgotten. "What the bloody hell do you want?" She dared him, just dared him to try and make things right now. Knowing where his weaknesses lay, she threw back her shoulders, making her breasts strain at her satin dressing gown.

Sure enough, his gaze shot straight to her chest. But he said, "All me things are in Molly's room. I'll have to shower here."

"Right." She turned back to the mirror. "Best get on with it then."

Shifting from pale foot to foot, he stayed in the doorway for a few moments, but when she didn't offer anymore, he left.

She considered slamming her bedroom door too, but then wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her peeved. When she heard the shower start, she shrugged out of the robe and slipped a ratty old sleep shirt over her head. Picking up the lovely bit of silk negligee that she'd taken out earlier when deciding on her costume, she shoved it violently back into the drawer. Fuck him!

No, don't fuck him, ever again. She burrowed under her duvet like an angry hare. A good book. Never did her wrong before...She pawed through the stack on her bedside table before settling on The Lovely Bones that she'd been avoiding reading for months. Best time to start!

The shower had gone off. He was a quick one in more ways than one, wasn't he? He better not try to charm his way into this bed...Footfall toward Molly's room...So he thought that he'd sleep there, did he...She had half a mind to storm down there and tell him to get right back to his own damn flat...

He was in the doorway again, now in a pair of baby blue boxers. "Where's the bear?"

"What?" She'd quickly prepared several responses for whatever pathetic excuses or tries that he'd make, but had no reply for that.

"The teddy bear. It's gone."

Remembering how she'd tossed the room when checking Gene's things, she still only arched an eyebrow. "Do you need it?"

"It's not on Molly's bed and I don't want her to think that I lost it."

"No, you wouldn't want to let her down."

He was looking at everywhere but her. His gaze fell on her childhood bear, Genie, that she'd brought back from Evan's. She'd put it on the other bedside table.

He took a step into the room. "There it is—"

She leaned across the bed to snatch it before he could reach it. "No, he's mine."

He stopped at the other side of her bed. "Sorry." His mouth quirked a smile.

She wasn't going to fall for this one bit. She hugged Genie close. "Evan bought me this bear the day after my parents died."

Gene folded his arms.

"I chose him because he made me feel safe." She turned the stuffed bear so Gene could see his silver button eyes. "I named him Genie. He was there for me, all the years until I went off to university and didn't want to look the prat with teddy on her bed." She gave him a squeeze. "Then I got there and all the girls had brought their lovies. So I was that cold-hearted girl who didn't need anyone or anything. Made for a good role to play."

His fingers were toying with the edge of the duvet. "Sorry."

She was tugging at Genie's ears, an old nervous habit.

"Oi, don't be doing that. It 'urts."

She didn't look at him, but smiled. "Tosser."

"Yeah, I'm a right tosser."

She decided he'd grovelled enough. Without saying anything, she reached over and pulled back the duvet. After a throat-closing moment, he sat on the bed, his back to her. She slid her palm along his wide, smooth shoulders. He really did have the most amazingly soft skin. It was like touching a newborn baby. He arched his spine like a cat, giving off what sounded a bit like a purr.

Putting aside the bear, she scooted down in the bed. He swung his legs up and under the covers.

"This side is fine," he said.

Still bitter, she bristled. "So you want my side?"

"I meant, I've never had a side." He lay stiffly.

"Right," she said slowly. "Just let me know if you want to switch."

"This is fine," he repeated.

"Good."

"Good."

She snapped off the light. "Best get some sleep, I guess. We'll need to get back to the Yard and try to straighten things out in the morning."

"Yeah."

But instead of going to sleep, he reached across her and turned the lamp back on.

"What?" she asked, blinking as he remained looming over here.

"I wanna look at you. Haven't gotten a proper gander." He gently tugged at her sleep shirt.

Even as she wiggled out of it, she argued. "I think you've seen me from just about every angle this evening, Gene Hunt."

"You struck me blind," he countered, pushing back the duvet to see her. Her eyes wide, she stared up at him. All the curl was gone from her wet hair. With her makeup removed, her freckles were in stark relief against her pale skin. Bolly was gone down the shower drain. "My Alex," he whispered.

Following the trail of freckles, he began to stroke her, from her neck to collarbone, skimming her breasts, giving her nipples an inquisitive tweak along the way, then rubbing his thumbs along her ribcage. His lips skimmed along on his touch's path but didn't linger anywhere, causing her to grumble in discontent as she held onto the sheet in tight fists. He snuffled in her armpit like a hound on the scent, under her breasts, pushed his cold nose into her navel. His brow was furrowed with concentration, as though he were trying to memorise every detail.

She'd always found his long, almost delicate fingers incongruous on this big rough man, but now that she saw him naked as well, it all fit together. His fine-boned wrists, his slender arms but wide shoulders, his smooth chest...A boy with a man's face. Was she some cougar with her toy boy? She rose to kiss him, wanting to block out the confusion. Her giggle broke their mouths apart.

"Was I tickling you?" he asked, snatching his hand away.

"Yes, no, don't stop," she said breathlessly. She pulled him atop her, having him settle between her thighs. They kissed slowly, the frantic need from earlier in the evening gone. She ran her hands down his back, causing him to shudder, but his over-sensitivity seemed to have calmed. Her hands slid under the waist of his boxers to grip his arse. She was delighted to find it was tightly muscled; she really needed to get him out of his baggy suits and into a pair of jeans. She squeezed hard.

He bucked against her at the pressure. Breaking free from the kiss, she nibbled at his neck, salty as popcorn. His stubble scraped her cheek, making her bite back.

"You're wearing too many clothes again," she scolded and pushed off his boxers.

Their hands tangled between their bodies.

"I've got it," she said bossily just as he grumbled, "I've got it."

Gasping in exasperation, she fell back, spreading her arms out wide. "Fine. You're so sure that you know what you're doing."

"Way to buck up my confidence there," he muttered. Any thought that a right hard shag would make Alex Drake shut her gob was dispelled.

Ignoring her impatience, he went back to exploring while kissing her quiet. Her belly—no scar on this Alex. Her hipbones, then the strong muscles in her thighs, resisting his light pressure. His fingers crept between her legs, still unsure. The now familiar heat and moisture, but he was a bit lost...Wasn't the opening right there? As she arched up, her gasp of pleasure breaking their kiss, he realised that he'd found that other important spot. Ignoring his throbbing hard-on, he tried different sorts of caresses, watching her face and listening to her breathless responses.

He could stay just like this all night...Then she grabbed his todger and gave a yank and he decided maybe things did need to move along.

His fingers continued to seek entry and finally discovered it. "Found the prize in me lucky bag," he said triumphantly. Swatting away her hand, he guided his cock to follow his fingers. Still unsure, he'd planned on slow and careful, but she grabbed his arse again and pulled him closer, lifting her hips to meet his thrust.

It took him a couple of tries to match her rhythm, but then he could revel in those long legs gripping his ribcage, the bounce of her tits with each meeting of their bodies, the quiver of her lips as she stared up at him.

In retrospect, he probably got overconfident. Although if pressed, he'd blame Alex when she urged him, "Faster, please, Gene! Harder!"

Putting his back into his thrusts, he swung his hips forward just as she also shifted back. He slipped free from her body and his cock stabbed her belly. They both cried out in pain.

"Bloody hell," he groused.

Alex grumbled too, grabbing his hips to guide him back. But after a few more thrusts, he pulled out again. The angle wasn't right—

"Damn you, Guv," she howled, turning her nails into his flesh.

"Just stay still, woman," he barked, trying to hold her off as he sorted things out.

"This is a two person activity, Gene," she lectured, still clawing at him, urging him back into position.

"If you'd just lie back and let me drive, we'd get the chequered flag here!" he roared.

She pushed him off. "You can just go back to your fantasy Bolly then," she huffed.

"And you can work it off with that bear," he sneered, flopping onto his back beside her.

Opening her mouth, she was ready to berate him more, but then paused. She had to be patient with him. So she just lay there.

"Wot."

"What?" She folded her arms. "You want to be in charge." Her voice completely flat, she said, "Rock my world, big boy."

He pouted. She glanced over and saw his protruding lips. A few thoughts on how to put that mouth to good use came to mind with the added benefit of shutting him up, but she realised it was much too soon for such advanced manoeuvres.

"You always did complain about my driving," he said. "Said I went too fast."

"I do now too," she gently reminded him.

There were tears in her voice that made him look at her. He cupped her cheek. "Yeah, you do." He kissed her softly. "It's you, Alex. It's always been you."

"I can't see how. I can't imagine myself as some wild spirit—"

He kissed her again. "You think too much." He nestled between her legs once more.

She tugged down a pillow. "Here, try this. Prop me up."

They arranged bedding and bodies. As he settled into gentle rocking, he said, "That's it. Like a big baby bumpin' along in a pram."

"Shut up, Gene, and fuck me." Her giggle softened the blow.

Tucking her knees under his armpits, he bent to his task, causing her to giggle even more. "Yer not helping," he growled.

"Oh yes, I'll help," she promised, pushing herself up to suckle at his neck, delicate bites that causes shivers down his spine, tightening his balls.

He'd been so confident as to his staying power earlier. Now he was ready to pop much too soon once more. "Damn," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Are you close?" He really had no idea what to look for. Her face was flushed, her eyes glowing, the little cries she made were encouraging, but he didn't think she seemed as excited as when she'd come before.

"Oh, sorry," she said vaguely as she tossed her arms above her head.

"Dammit, Alex." He bore down harder, pounding until the bed shook. She became louder but still a bit too content.

That place...that seemed to get her over the hurdle. Supporting himself on one shaking arm, he fumbled between their bodies on a search and rescue mission. She must have taken pity on him, for she beat him to it, working herself.

Grinding his teeth, he wondered why anyone found this enjoyable. He was in agony, every limb ached, his balls felt like they were tied in a knot, his head was pounding—then release, blessed release, and he was floating...Even as his hips continued to piston, his blood was singing, waves of contentment washed through his arms and legs.

Beneath him, Alex was calling to him, with him, and a corner of his brain registered and rejoiced, even as he was tumbling down to the mattress, a tall tree brushing past another on his descent.

Face down on the mattress, he tried to catch his breath. She slid out from under him, giggling.

"'ave some respect fer the dead," he gasped.

That made her stop laughing. She rolled onto her stomach to lie beside him, then nudged his shoulder with hers. "Are you sure that you're not Jesus? Because I just had a religious experience," she said, trying to lighten the mood again.

He cracked one eye open. "You batty tart."

She became grave again. "Seriously, Gene...What's happening? How is this happening?"

He slung an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. "I dunno. Half of me expected you to go up in a poof o' smoke midway through it—"

"I told you, I nearly did."

Turning on his side to face her, he glowered. "Hush. I just know...all I know...is this is where I want to be."

She gulped. It wasn't_ I love you_ but it sounded as close as the likes of Gene Hunt would come. She supposed that she should say something, but what exactly did she feel? That familiar panic settled on her but she was saved by a bell; her mobile rang.

Before she could snag it from the bedside table, Gene grabbed it. "Wot?" he grumbled.

She huffed indignation but he went bolt upright and swung his legs out of the bed. "Where? Right. We'll be there in twenty."

"What is it?" she asked, even as she scrambled out too.

"Body. It's the Angel killer." He was already back to being the Manc Lion, focused on the case, leaving her bed cold and empty. She watched his back go through the door, then went to the cupboard for her own clothes.

o

Tabitha James met them at the scene. Her gaze darted between them. "Glad you answered," she said carefully. "DS Welton had said the two of you were to be off the case for the time being but I couldn't leave it."

"Sorry about that," Alex said shortly. "DCI Hunt had a family issue come up." Which was true, sort of.

The young constable started to say more but settled for just looking significantly at how Gene's arm touched Alex's because they were standing so close. Alex found herself flushing and spoke more harshly than she intended. "Report, please."

"Male victim, Caucasian, approximately late teens or early twenties." Tabitha paused. "He doesn't quite fit with the previous victims, despite the same mutilation. He's over six feet in height, and although a slender build, he's our largest victim yet."

"Not a copycat," Alex said, frustrated. "That's the last bloody thing we need."

"Let's have a look at 'im," said Gene, leading the charge to the white tent covering the crime scene. He brushed aside the forensic technician offering the blue coverall. "Just goin' take a peek."

Alex followed closely, slipping in under his arm as he held up the flap. As soon as she saw the body, she held Gene back from stepping forward.

"Wot?"

"It's you."

"What the hell—" He took a look. "That bloody bastard," he growled.

"He's trying to send you a message," said Alex.

The young man's thin arms were outstretched as if to aid his flight. His flat, hairless chest was smooth and clean as plastic. His long legs, slender and delicate as a crane's, were bent to suggest he was struck down as though he'd been running. His head was flung back. A shock of blond hair was caught on the black tarmac. Pale eyes stared blankly upward.

Gene lit a cigarette. "That he is," he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Nig has left me a bloody love letter indeed."

End ~ Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

Red flashing lights wake her. She stares at them for a long hard minute before she registers that they're numbers and the long droning buzz that accompanies them are her cue to rise.

Later that night she'll be surrounded by blue and white flashing lights. They'll shimmer over her uniform, the shiny silver buttons will reflect their warning.

They were surprised when she pulled the dark uniform out of mothballs, went back to where she came from. Surprised and sullen and antagonistic but no one can tell her what to do now.

It's her duty anyway. Who else is there? She's too old to believe some angel will come to save her soul. It was too late to rely on a man. She'd be more likely to see Elvis Presley singing Psalms on a Sunday than to see her man or their man. No, their small lives are within her own two hands.

She checks on them all before she leaves. The youngest hasn't made it to where she should be, she's simply fallen where she was, well past bedtime. She's a bundle of blonde hair against pale skin. An angel.

Outside, she stares up, noticing the stars brighter than she ever has. She searches amongst them for an angel to fly over. But she holds her life within her own two hands.

She trudges down the street. Her body, where fifty-seven winters took their toll, is almost lost within the sparkling stars. She keeps walking, back to where she come from.

* * *

The little bald man cowered under Gene's barrage of questions.

"You work for Nigel Anthony. As his maitre de, it's your job to know 'is coming and goings." Gene leaned over the interview room table until he was breathing in Luigi's face.

Luigi looked frantically between Alex and Gene. "I do not understand," he said faintly. "Am I being accused of a crime? I came here to vouch Mr Anthony's movements. I only work at one of his business."

"'is business is exactly what I'm on about!" Gene growled.

Alex was shocked. Gone was her bashful and sensitive lover. Here was Sam Tyler's bellowing, bombastic DCI, literally throwing his weight around. He shoved his belly against the table, pressing it to Luigi Santomauro's own small round stomach.

Sensing her sympathy, Luigi looked pleadingly to Alex.

"DCI Hunt, may I have a word." Alex reached for the recorder's control.

Gene ignored her. "You got eyes, don't yah? You see hear things."

"Of course—"

"It's probably gonna be something you think nothin' of. I know you're a good bloke, Luigi," Gene said, his tone softening. "This Nige has been hiding his murdering ways somewhere safe—"

"Murder?" bleated Luigi.

Alex was about to protest again, but then she saw the little man's eyes shift slightly. He knew something. Time to play good cop.

Giving no mind to Gene's outraged expression, she shouldered him aside. Luigi's gaze immediately went to her breasts. Hiding her exasperation, she lowered her voice, projecting intimacy.

"What is it, Mr. Santomauro? You've thought of something."

His little mustache twitched. "Please, senorina. Call me Luigi."

"Luigi, what do you know?"

"Perhaps it is nothing." He shrugged.

Gene's breathing was loud at her ear.

"Perhaps," she said soothingly. "But tell us anyway."

"It was maybe six months ago. I get a call from a delivery man, with new prep table. But I find no order on the computer. Nor could I find the delivery address in our records. I tell him that he must have the wrong business. But when I tell Mr. Anthony, he ask for phone number and that was all."

Gene glanced at Alex, giving her a smirk. "That's it, Luigi? I got more than that from Nige's drycleaner. How 'bout you sit tight here for a while. Have a long think about more wrong business or I might go into the business of calling up immigration to check on your visa, si?"

Leaving Luigi in the interview room wiping sweat from his shining head with a large handkerchief, Alex chased Gene down the corridor. "Where are you going? We have to coordinate the team!"

He stopped so quickly that she stumbled and he grasped her shoulders to steady her, forcing her gaze to meet his. "I don't need a team. I just need you an' a .44 Magnum."

"What? We're going in alone, guns blazing? We haven't even been issued firearms!"

"Yer right." He rubbed his chin. "We need some guns fer sure."

"Gene, this is crazy. We have procedures that we must follow—"

He backed her against the wall. He'd assumed that shagging her would make her bend to his will, put her all aflutter and feminine. It always worked that way in the movies, after all. Her mouth was in a rigid line, and her gorgeous eyes flashed like railway crossing lights. Nothing malleable there.

"Alex, dammit, I thought you believed me."

She quickly glanced up and down the corridor. A few passing detectives looked at them curiously, but kept walking. "Of course I do. I wouldn't have—"

"Then why are you giving me guff? Who gives a shit about rules and regulations! We've got to stop this bastard!"

"We will apprehend him," she said soothingly, "he'll go to jail and we'll be on to the next case. We can't lose our jobs over this."

"You're worried about losing our ruddy jobs?" Gene was astonished.

"Yes, Gene. This isn't some game that you're playing."

He bit back his protests. She was too close to the truth. "Alex, there's more at stake than your next promotion. This is your life I'm talking about—"

Infuriatingly, she patted his chest confidently. "That's what you're here for. My guardian angel won't let anything happen to me, right?" She shouldered past him, heading to the murder room. When it was obvious that she wasn't coming back, he could only follow, grumbling under his breath.

He was still stewing as she updated the team and passed out assignments. There were many curious looks from the officers, but no one dared ask where they'd been or what they'd been doing. Rob Welton and Dave Ritchie stood with crossed arms against the wall, but were grave and attentive. Donna and Tabitha were right in front of the incident board, their heads moving in unison as Alex paced, ticking through the details.

Gene interrupted: "We're gonna want to have shooters."

She gave a martyred sigh. "Armed Response will go in first to secure the building, then we'll accompany the forensic team to search for evidence. We don't need Clint Eastwood kicking down the door."

"This murdering prick is dangerous!"

"In all likelihood, he won't be there!" Done, she turned her back on him and addressed the others. "Everything clear?"

"Yes, boss," they all barked. All but one. Her chin raised, Alex met Gene's sceptical gaze. He finally gave a sharp nod.

Relieved, she clapped her hands together. "Let's head out, everyone."

The detectives streamed from the room, chatting together. Gene brought up the rear, slowly pulling on his gloves.

Alex dropped back, in step with him. "If you want to shoot down suspects, get a secondment to America!" she said, tugging on her jacket.

"I didn't say anything," he replied indignantly.

"You didn't have to," she tossed over her shoulder as she banged through the door.

Sure enough, he grumbled and muttered illegibly all the way to the garage and into her car, where he slumped in the passenger seat, pouting, as she drove through the incoming storm to the Docklands address given to them by Luigi Santomauro.

X

Rain was falling heavily as Alex hopped out of the car and headed off without waiting for Gene to take the now familiar spot at her side. He was following though; she heard the click of his lighter behind her as he lit a cigarette. Let him sulk.

Blue and grey police tape stretched across the mews' entrance, and a few PC's stood sentry. One held up the tape for Alex to pass under. She stopped, squinting in the dim dusk and rain. "Dobbs? You're on patrol? I expected you to take the desk spot that came up."

The older woman puffed on a cigarette while handling the tape. "Still plenty of kick left in this mule, luv. Need the extra money from street duty in my retirement account."

Waiting for the all clear from Armed Response, Alex loitered, watching Gene out of the corner of her eye. "The north country calling you home for your golden years?"

"Not likely," Dobbs said, releasing a great cloud of smoke. "I've got nothing but deadbeat kiddies and empty coffers after that bloody husband of mine took off with the savings. No reason to go back."

Before Alex could respond, Gene trundled by. "Put a fire under it, Drake," he barked.

"You got your orders," Dobbs said with a wink.

Alex glared at Gene's back, but followed.

Donna, trussed in a bulletproof vest, was waiting by the building entrance. "All secured," she said. "A sweep of the interior, and a look around the exterior. PC's posted at all exits and watching windows."

"Good, since someone's taken me gun away," grumbled Gene, refusing to let the issue go.

Alex's patience was frayed right to the breaking point. "We're doing a search; that's all. I swear, Gene, you're like talking to a child." She pulled up short, remembering he was nearly a child.

An Armed Response sergeant held out two bulletproof vests. Alex took hers without protest, but Gene hissed his last mouthful of smoke out like an agitated dragon. "Piss off." At her exasperation, he ranted, "Remember, just pokin' about. I won't need some girlie padded bra."

Taking a deep breath, Alex pushed aside her annoyance. She needed to focus on the job ahead.

City records showed that one of Nigel Anthony's solicitors owned this two-storey converted mews building and thus had been missed in their original search of his properties. When they entered the ground floor, it appeared to be set up as a test kitchen. Wide stainless steel tables filled the middle of the room, with pots hanging above. One wall was lined with deep, large sinks. Knives, cleavers, and bone saws were attached to magnetic strips behind them. What could happen here was instantly obvious with chilling clarity.

Alex ordered the first forensic technician to follow them, "Go over everything very carefully. Pull the pipes open if you have to. See if you can get any genetic material."

The young man nodded and set down his tool boxes, ready to work. He was joined by two more from the forensic team.

Gene strode around, touching nothing, but carefully examining everything. "A body could fit on this worktop," he said, "then just wash everything down the sink."

"Yes," Alex said grimly.

"Freezer," he said, tipping his head to a large door at the back of the room.

She went to it and pulled the heavy latch open. Gene stayed in the doorway, holding the door open.

Wrapped packages of meat were neatly stacked on wire shelves. A large metal hook hung from the ceiling at the back of the freezer. She looked at it as closely as she could, but it was too high for her to see much.

"We'll want this gone over with a fine tooth comb as well," she said.

"Right." Gene called over his shoulder to the forensic team.

Alex remained rooted in place. The cold settled in her bones. She could not only see her breath, but feel the air being squeezed from her lungs. Panic raised her heartbeat, thundering in her ears. She couldn't hear the others anymore. A tune, familiar enough to furrow her brow, played in a corner of her mind.

"Alex." Gene was at her elbow.

She stared up at him as though he were a stranger.

"Alex," he said urgently, "let's get you out of here." Grasping her arm, he nearly dragged her away.

But even when she was back in the kitchen, she fought to breathe properly.

"He's here," she murmured, barely able to speak.

Gene didn't question her, but looked around the room. "'ave we found the upstairs access?" he asked Donna, who'd reappeared.

"Yes, sir," she said quickly, all business. "This way."

The upper level was obviously used as storage, with a musty smell and boxes stacked high. A few bare bulbs hung from the low raftered ceiling. Streetlights leaked through the dusty windows, casting long shadows.

"It's all been searched?" Gene asked.

"We've done a pass through," Donna told him.

He gave a grumble. "Let's have another then," he said.

Alex turned on her torch. "I'll take this side."

The boxes were higher than her head. Spices, sweet and musky, like walking through Moroccan markets, wafted from the boxes, giving her a headache. There was that same sense of danger and uncertainty as traversing those narrow, crowded passageways.

"Alex?" Gene called her from across the room. He sounded concerned, surprising her.

As she turned, she saw a furious face reflected in the dark windows. She had only milliseconds to react. She gave a bark to warn Gene and swung around, her torch raised as an ineffective weapon.

Everything went into slow motion, with individual frames of a film running before her. The flash of a knife's blade coming toward her. Shards of glass from the lightbulb raining down, broken by her flailing torch. The thump against her chest of the blade. She grabbed her attacker and they were falling together. His hot breath on her cheek with vile curses muttering in her ear. Then a sudden, shocking impact as they landed, her on the bottom. The glinting blade again, above her face.

"Alex!" Tossing cartons aside, Gene thundered towards them, shaking the wooden floor beneath her.

She blocked the knife-wielding arm with her forearm and kneed Nigel, fighting back with everything she had. For Molly, for Evan, for Gene. Surprised at his name coming to her.

"Let 'er go, you bastard!" Gene roared.

He was nearly there and relief gave Alex strength. The twitching knife was still close to her head, but she ignored it. Planting her feet, she flipped Nigel off, dodging another swing of the blade. Gene was reaching, but not for Nigel, for her. She had a quirk of irritation. He yanked her away, dragging her across the floor.

In the dim corridor of boxes, all they could hear was a scrabbling noise as Nigel scuttled away.

"Off," Alex yelled, pushing Gene. "Get him!"

For once he followed orders and plunged into the shadows, his black overcoat swirling; a dark hawk diving after his prey.

Legs shaking, Alex stood and yanked out her radio to call for support. "He's here! Spread out! Watch for our target!" She took off in pursuit too.

The room went black.

"Son of a bitch!" she growled, fumbling for her torch. It was gone, dropped in her struggle. She was forced to stop, back to the wall, arms up in a defensive position in case Nigel came after her again.

A crashing noise in the distance. She risked calling out, "Gene!"

"'ere, luv," he said, flipping on his torch.

"Watch your back," she warned him.

"He's gone." Gene rejoined her. "I heard him going down the stairs. He must have switched off the lights on his way out."

He took her arm and ran the torch beam over her body. "Did he get you? I saw a flamin' knife."

"Yes, yes, he stabbed me," she babbled, frantically patting at the protective vest. "Here..." Her fingers found the slice in the fabric but the penetration in the thick padding wasn't deep. "I'm fine," she gasped in relief. "Fine."

She sagged against him and his arms held her tightly. Her radio squawked between their bodies.

Donna's voice, panicked and crackling. "Officer down!"

They clattered downstairs, Gene's torch beam bobbing in front of them. Tabitha's frightened face was lit in the doorway.

"You alright?" Gene asked, grabbing the young woman's arm.

"Yes, sir. It's a PC. The suspect just came bursting out." Tabitha's eyes welled with tears of frustration. She wiped them away quickly. "Before we could stop him, he ran past. Dobbs blocked him...and he stabbed her."

"Dobbs!" Alex sprinted to the frantic knot of uniformed officers.

Shaking his head in anger, Gene followed. When he arrived, a female constable was sprawled out on the tarmac. Her coat and uniform had been pulled open to expose her naked torso and sensible white bra, now blood-splattered. Another PC had torn off his shirt and was holding it to her belly. The wadded fabric was already saturated with blood. Gene knew she was dying. Alex looked up at him, anguished.

"Let me have her," Gene said grimly, pushing Alex not too gently aside and kneeling. When he gathered the body in his arms, the PC's helmet rolled away. She was older, the miles on her face deeply rutted but her hair twist was held perfectly in place by Aquanet. He knew her.

"Phyllis," he said, "you crazy bird. What're you doin' in this stinkin' Southern sewer?"

His old Manchester WPC only rasped painfully, fighting for breath.

Alex was screaming into her phone, demanding an ambulance, but the pool of blood grew on the tarmac. "I'm 'ere, old girl," Gene murmured, "no worries. Everything will be fine."

Phyllis only stared blankly into the falling rain. He could feel no connection, no flow of energy. And he supposed there wouldn't be, would there? She was leaving the real world and going...Where? The Manchester CID? He wasn't there to give her hell, put her behind the counter, and slap a clipboard in her hands.

After hopping the kerb, an ambulance braked to a halt near them. Alex tugged on Gene's shoulder. "Get back. Let them save her." Her words were thin and frail.

He gently lay Phyllis's head on the ground. "She's gone," he told Alex.

Alex found her voice again. She pushed him. "Let them do CPR! Get out of the way!"

Feeling very heavy and old, Gene stumbled to his feet and stepped away. He dug out his cigarettes and lit one gratefully.

When the heat filled his lungs, he expected to dissolve like the smoke he exhaled through his nose. Why was he here, if he couldn't stop Alex from being attacked, if he couldn't save one his own—

"Gene, what the hell is going on?" Alex's wet hair stuck to her face and she looked tired and lost.

He turned his back to her. "Go home, Alex. Get some rest."

He strode to the small knot of the team. "Tabby, step this way," he commanded, not bothering to meet the curious gazes of the others.

"Yes, Guv?" the young detective asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I've got to take a few. But with this rat's poxy knob still on the loose, I don't want Alex—DI Drake alone. Stand watch on her flat tonight. Bring those boys back who were keeping an eye out for me," he added with an ironic twist to his mouth.

"Yes, sir," she said soberly. "I won't let you down."

He clapped his hand on her shoulder. "'Course not."

It took him some time, but Gene found a grotty little pub, with blinking fruit machines, dark-stained walnut walls, torn bile-green carpet, and dust-covered brewery medallions. Blissfully happy, he sank into a dim booth and pulled out his cigarettes.

"Sorry, luv," said the blowsy barmaid, all burnt platinum hair and swinging large breasts, giving his table a furious wipe with a ratty towel. "No smoking."

"Bugger." He couldn't even be angry even though he needed a smoke with an utter desperation.

"There's tables on the back patio. Just a bit wet, mind you," she said helpfully.

The rain was still coming down when he pushed through the door into the shadow-filled patio. Huddled under the sagging umbrellas, a few old rummies were slumped at the picnic tables. Blue smoke hung in the air. He found a spot under an umbrella and lit his own cigarette.

This felt good. It felt right. Even as the damp bench seeped into the seat of his trousers. He wanted his old life back and knew he couldn't have it. He had thought everything was be right when you got the girl. Instead, he doesn't know how to do this. He hated being afraid and worried, he hated seeing the sorrow in her eyes every time she talked to her daughter on the phone. But he just didn't know what to say to make her feel better. Talking to her was so much easier when he wasn't shagging her. Now he was just another clueless bloke, being led around by his todger.

Without him asking, the barmaid brought him a whiskey. He grunted thanks.

Why had he thought he could save Phyllis? This wasn't his world. She was alone there now—or was she? If it was his creation, was she just lost?

He gulped the glass empty and signalled the hovering barmaid for another.

Luigi was doomed too. Who knew when and where, but he'd die without resolution. Nothing Gene could do about that either. Grubbing out his cigarette, he lit another one immediately. He started drinking the fresh whiskey that had just been placed before him.

What the hell was he doing here if he couldn't save anyone? Was it a sick joke to punish him? Or had he been tossed on the trash, and this world had him stuck between a rotted banana peel and a stinking chips' wrapper? Releasing a long stream of smoke, he decided that wouldn't be too bad. He could try to make things work with Alex, if she'd have him. Who knew with a bird, though.

He tried not to think about his mates back in 1985. Some of those old bastards had been there for years now. And for the first time, he wondered what the hell had happened to those he left in Manchester to come to London. Phyllis would be showing up there...or would she? He tried to remember when she'd first appeared at the front counter as he'd blustered by...1969? His memories were stretching thin like a piece of old bubblegum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Confused and frustrated, he scrubbed his hair, raining ash on it from the cigarette in his fingers. He supposed they were all having pints in the Railway Arms. When Ray, Chris and Shaz had gone through the door, he'd heard many familiar voices. He'd sworn that he'd heard Sam and Annie calling out to their old friends. They must have popped in for quick half before getting back to those kiddies.

It would have been so easy to follow Bolly in, drag her out of the ladies' saloon, introduce her around, buy that first round...

"Closing time, luv," said the barmaid, leaning on the table to stick her head under the umbrella.

He glanced up and looked right at her large tits hanging out of a snug blouse. There was a blurry tattoo of a butterfly on her left one.

"Kay," he muttered, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray.

She leaned even further over. "Got somewhere to go?"

His gaze shot up again. She'd applied fresh lipstick before coming over to his table. Her fleshy wide mouth stretched into a suggestive smile.

Well, why not? He didn't know what to do with Alex, but this slapper would be easy to figure out. Now that he'd managed to punch his brand on one doggie, he should be able to do it with another.

All this thinking was giving him brain cramp. He untangled his legs from the picnic table bench. "Yeah, I do. Thanks." He tossed down a ten pound note on the table and left the pub.

Out on the street, he went to light another cigarette but the last one in the pack was bent and spilling tobacco. A newsagent stall was open and bright at the corner. He got Marlboros, a box of cigarillos, and a package of Juicy Fruit gum.

Instead of lighting a smoke right off, he lifted the chewing gum to his nose and inhaled, bringing back memories of dark interview rooms, being the Manc Lion prowling his kingdom, everyone quaking at his roar.

"Last chance," said a voice from the dark street.

He squinted through the rain. The slutty barmaid was hanging out of her ancient Mini. He ambled over and leaned on the roof to peer down her blouse again. He'd played this scene out plenty of times in his world. She was exactly the type that he'd conjure up; blonde, petite, with overflowing curves. Idly, he wondered why he was so attracted to Alex.

"What that, luv?" he asked.

"Thought you might want a ride." She put a cigarette in her mouth and he quickly whipped out his lighter. She looked surprised at his old-fashioned gallantry. "Ta," she murmured.

He wasn't that dense. She wasn't talking about just the car. He cleared his throat. Couldn't be rude, after all. She wasn't a bad stick; just being friendly.

"Thing is, the missus is waiting."

She blew out a stream of smoke. "You weren't acting like a bloke eager to rush home."

He chuckled. "Not saying that she'll be waitin' with me pipe and slippers, but it's got to be done. Thanks, though."

"Still could give you the ride." She put the car in gear.

"I see a cab coming," he said comfortably, "ta." He raised his arm the approaching taxi, showing that he was serious. She pulled away from the kerb with a squeal of tires.

When he hopped in the cab, the driver tossed over his shoulder, "Fight with the little lady?"

This time Gene barked a laugh. "Not that one. Going home to it, more'n likely." He settled back in the seat. Couple shots of whiskey, too much thinking and still didn't know what he was going to say to Alex. Sounded about right.

X

Alex roamed her flat, unsettled. She'd called Molly, then checked in with the Yard to see if there were any sightings of Nigel. With nothing else to do, she showered, noting the beard burn on her breasts and a few love bites that she didn't remember receiving. She'd have to watch that her necklines didn't reveal too much if they were going to keep this up.

Were they? Women said that they wanted a soulmate, but the Prince Charming profile didn't fit the likes of Gene Hunt.

Hair wet and wearing only a silk dressing gown, she wandered into the lounge. Was _this_ still going on? Her only true relationship had been her marriage twelve years ago and had lasted exactly seventeen months. Gene may not have much experience, but she was hardly a seasoned veteran. And she was going to guess they were both equally gunshy.

Turning on music, she found herself in a John Mayer mood. Slow dancing in a burning room just about described how she felt around Gene Hunt...

She finally gave in and located her mobile in the pocket of her coat hanging by the front door. No calls. He certainly wasn't clingy. Her fingers tightened around the phone. The rasp of a key in the lock startled her. She took a step back, considering turning on the light but decided to keep an element of surprise with the intruder.

The door swung open. Gene's wide shoulders blocked out the light. Rain glistened on his black overcoat and darkened his hair.

"You're all wet," she said faintly.

"I should go back to my flat," he said, not entering. "Need some things though."

She had just enough air in her lungs to gasp: "No."

After a heart-stopping moment, he stepped through and closed the door. He began to tug one glove off with his teeth.

"No," she said again, capturing his wrist and sliding the glove back on. She guided his hand inside her gown to settle on her waist. His mouth hovered over hers for a moment, lips just grazing—indecisive. His weight shifted as though to leave; she clawed at his belt, making her intention clear.

Yes, stay in the dark, do it quick, before she could change her mind, before he could reconsider—his gloved fingers dove into her wet hair, bringing their mouths clashing together, grinding, biting, invading. The clank of his belt buckle, the roar of his zip running down, the shocking cold of her hand giving him a few strong strokes.

He nearly lost consciousness at the sudden realisation of what was about to happen, if he could manage to not fuck this up. The only parts of him that could feel anything were his tongue, tracing patterns on hers; his muted touch in the leather gloves, one hand squeezing her arse, the other's thumb circling one hard nipple; and of course, the pulsing in his cock. Sagging on weak legs, he drove her against the wall.

Tumbling, tumbling down from the heavens, his coat swirling around them like raptor's wings covering his prey. Her leg wrapped around his hip, pushing down his trousers, pressing skin to skin with searing heat. He needed to feel the fire. His fingers slid between her thighs, seeking. Frustration at the familiar sense that he couldn't truly touch her. Her grip on his wrist, pressing his fingers harder, deeper. "Oh, shit," she groaned, her head lolled back to sweep the wall with her hair.

"Gotta fuck you," he promised. Lifting her, the slide of her thighs in his gloved hands, surging forward, seeing his need in her tear-filled gaze, having to hide his gratitude in her neck. Just their world, darkness, heat, panting breaths against his ear, into hers, and the painful ecstasy of joining her body, deeper and deeper.

Greedy, he had to have more. Tipping his head to find her lips. Their mouths suckling, nipping, swiping tongue to tongue. He was boiling alive, his tie was choking him, his knees were shackled in his trousers, her long legs squeezing his ribs until they creaked, and this was the most fantastic moment in his very short sexual experience.

He had to have more. Ignoring her squeal of dismay and her reproaching "you bastard!" he lifted her off his length to attack her tits. One, then the other, biting with his lips, lapping with his tongue, pressing his nose to her skin. He wanted the odour of his grave to be the smell of her skin.

Grumbling with discontent, she wiggled about, finding just the head of his dick to rub against and he damn near lost it in one jerk of his hips. She was victorious, grinding hard and sharp, chanting, "Yes, yes, yes—Oh God, I'm so close—"

A jolt hit him low in his groin. He desperately needed to come too. He thrust up, sliding home, and her orgasm struck, pulsing around his cock. He combusted; she was flames in his arms. The wall was the only thing keeping them upright as they wrung the last tremors from their clashing bodies.

His coat drifted down, draping over them. For the first time since he came in, he realised music was playing. Some woofter was whining about losing his bird. Well, screw him, Gene had his own problems. He propped himself on his shaking arm and helped her slowly slide to her feet with mutual groans. She had to lean against him.

"No...damn you, Gene Hunt. Damn you."

"Wha'd I do?" he mumbled sleepily against her neck, drained of all energy.

When she said, "Come on," and tugged his hand, he struggled after her, holding his trousers up with one hand.

Looking down once they moved into the light, he decided the garment wasn't worth the effort. Stained with blood, dirt and everything else. He dropped them to the floor and tugged his boxers up. Tossing aside his gloves, he shrugged his overcoat and suit jacket off, flung his tie towards a chair, and popped open half his shirt buttons. Stupid wanker getting undressed _after_ sex.

She fell to the sofa, graceful as always, draping her dressing gown over her curves, but not bothering to fasten the sash. Another time when she was all glowing satin and glistening skin in dim light came back to him in a flash. Only this time, he got the payoff.

He sat stiffly on the farthest end. He desperately needed a fag.

"Sorry," he said, his tone harsh.

She was fingercombing her damp hair. "For what?" she asked vaguely.

He nodded toward the foyer. "For that."

Blinking in confusion, she stared at him. "What are you on about?"

"Not right."

"Felt pretty right to me," she said carefully.

He tipped his head, looking everywhere but at her. She could see his distress, and fought her irritation.

"You thought aggressive sex would displace your feelings of helplessness and inadequacy and it didn't," she surmised.

"You're doing it again," he grumbled.

"What?"

"Schitzo-analysing me."

"If you don't want me to do that, stop being a git. I don't know where you got the idea that all sex was supposed to be on rose petal-covered silk sheets, with me in white chiffon, and my only tears will be at the magnificence of your cock."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "That part is right."

"Git," she pronounced definitely, but she had to smile too.

"It's just...sex with you was going to be different than all the shithole rutting I'd seen."

"Excuse me, but that wasn't shithole rutting. That was fabulous rutting."

He finally looked at her, his gaze slowly moving over her body. Her breath caught and her skin flushed with desire, not embarrassment. Damn him, for making her feel this way...

She needed to push him away and pull him closer. "Did you know Phyllis Dobbs?"

"Yeah."

"Was she one of your...yours?"

"Yeah." He pulled out a yellow chewing gum packet from his shirt pocket and turned it like a cigarette in his fingers. "What was Phyllis doing down in this Southern cesspool anyway? She had the Irwell running in 'er veins."

Tired, Alex had to think. "She told me that she came down here for the higher wages and to put some family trouble behind her. Like so many before her."

"She's gone home now," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"It happens." He looked away. "It's the way of the world."

She rose. Her robe fell open but she didn't bother to close it. His head lolled back on the sofa cushion to look at her.

She gazed down at him. In the lamplight, his long lashes made shadows on his cheek and she could just see the glisten of his light eyes. His fair hair was silver and gold, still raked into a wild thatch by her frantic fingers. The first blow to her chest—his physical effect on her. The second—she'd been truly afraid that he wouldn't return. Surely he would just disappear in a puff of his cigarette smoke one day?

The third blow caused her to shudder. She realized that if he did go, that would hurt a great deal, like nothing she'd felt since her parents' deaths. She fought the urge to toss him right out this moment before she suffered any more loss.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied her shaking hand before she held it out. "Come on, you." He laced his fingers with hers and stood. "Let's get washed up and to bed."

~end Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

The slide of fingers across his palm, tightly folded pound notes pressed into his lifeline; he was born in original sin. Ten pounds here, twenty there, piling higher and higher, lifting him up through the force. Burying him deeper and deeper, the weight against his chest, inching closer to his chin, then to his mouth when he would finally drown in his sin, choke on the wealth with which he could do nothing.

A knock on the door, a pounding, a man in black coming to save his soul. A saint, an apostle, his mother's messenger spreading the word. A brother, the other side of the guinea coin, fresh-pressed and shiny.

He doesn't want to hear the homily. There's a pounding in his head, louder than the thundering fists of the man outside. Dark guilt, growing as a tumor, a black clot, blocks out any sermon the man can deliver.

* * *

Gene still didn't sleep much in this world. There were the hours of darkness, then consciousness. But it didn't bother him. Now he wasn't slumped at his desk, waiting for the next dawn. He lay in a real bed with a very solid Alex Drake. This was nothing as he'd imagined, even when he'd dared to project himself there, intruding into her jumbled dreams.

Everything was more. The scent on the sheets, smelling of sleep and their skin. The sigh of the mattress as she shifted and settled closer to him. The soft curves and firm angles of her body, finding his own valleys. The bright morning light making him squint and bury his nose in her hair.

He'd never been this close to a woman. Even his own mam only spared him the occasional brief hug. And when he was a lad hoping to get a kiss and a cuddle, girls spared no time for the gawky collection of long thin limbs and whispering words, his yearning gaze hiding behind a hank of blond hair. An eagle-eyed sergeant had assured that no local lasses were impressed by his uniform while serving in National Service and then, his first chance, striding the streets in his constable's dark uniform, was lost with a shotgun blast.

At the memory, he gave an involuntary jerk and snuggled closer to Alex, reassured by her neck pulse under his cheek. She grumbled—he thought she would wake but she only shifted her legs with his and slipped back into deep sleep.

That skinny lad had made a Gene Hunt out of the characters seen in hours spent alone at the pictures; steely-eyed cowboys, cool as ice private dicks, thuggish gangsters with hearts of gold. He couldn't be that man in his own body, but he could in his world of his own imaginings.

Off the flickering screen, his fumbling half-grown boy's fantasy of being with Alex Drake had meant driving fast in his car to hear her gasp, slumping close to her around a small table, daring to brush his thigh to hers, sweeping her up in his arms like a film hero. Nonetheless, slowly, day by day, he was becoming the man whose body he walked around in. His lips gently closed on the tendon of her neck, loose in sleep but strong.

Not knowing what to do with all these rambling feelings, he was grateful that she slept on. He had growing pains for sure. Glorious moments when he was the Duke, striding into the saloon with his gun strapped tight to his leg. Other times bumbling Jimmy Stewart, stuttering over every word as he drowned in the beauty of his gorgeous girl.

Last night, he thought for sure that she'd kick him out on his arse for mauling at her, instead, she'd exploded like a rocket in his arms, burning his skin with the intensity. And then...

Remembering, his cock twitched and he shifted to keep from disturbing her. A tumble of the new memories... Her pushing him into the shower, scolding him to wash up, which he dutifully did, because the Gene Hunt who would have told her to piss off was in another time and he did want for a cleaning. She'd gone into her own nighttime ritual, which he watched, curious, peeping over the shower rod.

Brushing her teeth and then running a string between her teeth. He dared to poke his head out. "What're ya doing?"

"Flossing. What does it look like I'm doing?"

No idea; he retreated instead of answering.

Tying her hair back, turning her face to and fro to examine it—what was she expecting to see? She looked damn perfect to him. Smoothing lotion in careful swirling patterns. Then of all things, sweeping her dressing gown back as a queen would her velvet cape, she settled on the toilet and took a leak. He almost stuck his head out to make a comment, but something stopped him. He gained another year of wisdom in a few minutes.

Clank down of the toilet lid, and tugging the holder from her hair to brush it, straight and true as her aim. No curls, no flips, no sharp edges brushing her jawline. A girl's simple lank hair, bright brown. He'd had to concentrate hard to remember that Alex's hair styles.

He used to think of the woman from the eighties as his Alex, but now she was that other Alex. Turning off the water, he fumbled for a towel while wrestling with the shower curtain.

She swept the curtain back for him. "You're going to pull it down," she scolded affectionately—he was her boy; maybe she didn't need a man after all.

"Jesus, Gene, what's it been, fifteen minutes?"

"Wot?" Stepping out onto the mat, he blinked water out of his eyes and scrubbed his hair dry.

She snatched the towel from his hand and gestured to his fresh erection. "That. Flossing my teeth turns you on? You are an odd one."

He glanced down, feeling vulnerable being naked and aroused, but not wanting to fight her for the towel. "Wot," he repeated, trying to be nonchalant.

"I suppose you'll always be that nineteen year old," she said, "no matter how old your body looks."

When he'd shrugged, still desperately wanting the towel back, she had smirked. Her gaze had gone dark as smoke, something he'd never seen before, no matter how often he'd looked into her eyes for all the answers.

Slowly, she got down on her knees before him. He should have been cool as Clint Eastwood when the noose slipped around his neck. The soundtrack's lone whistle shivered up his spine as she grasped his cock and brought it toward her mouth.

"Wot you doing?" Who the fuck was this twat asking idiotic questions?

Her words were even hotter than his heated skin. "I wanna make you cry."

It shouldn't sound like a threat; she was the one on her knees in nothing but a blue satin dressing gown. Then her pouting lips slid over the head of his cock and his thick skull thumped against the wall. He couldn't watch. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the vision of his dreams come to life and stop tears.

But it was a mistake. Blindness made every sensation more intense. He swore that he could feel all the taste buds on her tongue as it slid up and down his length. To the tip, and the underside of her tongue, so slick and soft, swirled around the tender skin. Her hand gripping the base, giving just enough of a squeeze to make him whimper. If he wasn't coming, it was only because his heart was stopped. All his blood beat in his groin, threatening to explode.

He had to warn her— He grabbed her shoulder, and the satin under his sweaty hand reminded him of her vibrant blouses tight across her tits, how often that he'd wanted to push her down just like this...His hips bucked and she took him deep again, now with suction and he cried out.

"Shhhh, baby," she whispered before inhaling his cock fully. She smoothed her palms along his hips and around to massage his arse. He calmed enough to slowly move with her ministrations, careful not to gag her and end this amazing experience.

But when her fingers slide between his cheeks, he instantly tensed again.

"Okay," she said with a giggle. Her hand gently tugged at his balls while she licked along his length, a tandem of sensations that were burning him from the inside out. Then once more, she covered his cock with her mouth, this time with the slightest of scrape with her teeth, making him thump his head against the wall.

He was Gene Hunt at last, this gorgeous bird sucking him off, down before the king, giving him his due; he was some sobbing boy, tears on his cheeks, afraid to open his eyes for fear of waking from this bloody fantastic dream.

Finally, before he could die from the agony, her thumb rubbed hard from the underside of his cock to his tight balls and he came with an incoherent roar, incapable of praising a god who'd made this possible. He crashed to his own knees, grabbed her roughly and pulled her close. Satin slid over his damp skin, coming open so her breasts pressed to his chest.

"Damn, woman," he managed to mumble. He never wanted to let go.

"That's a thank you?"

Her tone told him to crack an eyelid open. He had made the mistake of thanking her before; should he dare this time? Her eyes were warm caramel again, full of love and humour. He kissed her instead of answering and tasted salt sharper than tears. She wiped his cheeks dry before giving him a chaste peck on the lips. Using him as a prop, she managed to rise, her knees cracking.

"Up with you," she said, tugging his hand. "Let's get you to bed."

Grumbling nothing in particular, he hauled himself to his feet, wavered for a bit, then staggered after her and fell into the bed naked. She had slid under the duvet beside him and he had been asleep as soon as she flicked off the light.

A slow drawl brought him back to the morning. "You're making me feel like some dirty old woman."

"Ever think you might just be that sexy?" he asked, pulling her snug to him, trapping his erection between them.

Her snort of laughter said that she didn't take him seriously. He tipped her chin to meet her gaze. "Give yourself some credit," he said roughly.

She gave him a shy smile before hiding her face in the duvet. She groped behind her blindly to pat his hip as though he were an overly-friendly dog. "Thanks," was all she said.

She was so quiet and still, he thought that she'd gone back to sleep. Then she said, "You're thinking. I can't think without coffee."

"Not anything you can't keep up with." He nosed behind her ear and inhaled again.

"I assume it's about how balls up this hunt for Anthony is going," she said with a sigh.

He lazily nibbled her warm shoulder. "Nah. I was remembering last night."

She wiggled around to face him. "Idiot," she said affectionately. "I'm right here."

He cupped her cheek. "Yeah."

"So you liked that?"

He pouted. "It was tolerable."

She found a bit of tender skin at his waist to pinch.

"Ouch, you dozy cow," he growled. Deciding he better butter her up, he told her, "Last night marked two ticky boxes."

"Boxes?"

"On the list."

"List?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. The list." She shifted, draping her leg over his hip. "Two, in one night?"

He pulled her up a bit so he could breathe in the morning scent on her breasts. They were soft and loose from sleep, but her nipple tightened instantly when he mouthed it idly.

"What are some of the other tick boxes?" she asked, her fingers rummaging through his hair until it was a wild nest.

"Won't tell you. I'll just let you know when we're by yer desk."

She giggled. "A desk, huh."

His turn to hide his face in the pillow.

She lay her hand on his flushed cheek. "It's okay. I've got my own ticky boxes."

One silver eye peeked up at her. "Eh?"

"Yes, Gene. Me too."

He pondered. She drew circles on his bare shoulder, vaguely thinking that she should get up...make breakfast...get dressed...go to the office and see where they were with this—

"Well, then?" he barked.

"What?"

"A box."

"Boxes."

"Start with one box."

She rolled onto her back and pushed down the bedding. His gaze immediately went to her breasts. "No, darling. Lower."

He tipped his head like a perplexed bulldog.

"The favour returned?" she prodded.

It took a minute for what she was suggesting to sink in, then he gulped, his adam's apple rising comically. His eyes were wide with fear.

"Leave it," she sighed. She took pity on him and held up her arms. "No sense for that perfectly good hard-on to be wasted," she offered.

"No, no, I can give it a go," he offered half-heartedly.

"As enticing as that sounds," she said with a delicate shudder, "I'll pass." Returning to the matter at hand, she tugged him over on her. Eagerly, he crawled aboard, blocking out the bright morning light. His hair glowed with a golden nimbus as she guided him into her, firm hand at his hip.

The softest of kisses—who could guess he would be such a gentle kisser. She ran her fingertips across his grizzled jawline before tangling in his hair and pulling him down for a deeper kiss, morning breath be damned.

They rocked together lazily, her heels sliding up and down his calves in encouragement. He liked this, a lot. Gone was the frantic urgency of their first couplings. He could just focus on tasting her skin and sweat, nibbling at her mouth, breathing on her closed lids. Dimly he wondered if he'd finally calmed down when his todger knew this was going to be a regular thing.

Then he felt that deadly tightening low in his groin. She was nowhere close—only a half-smile on her lips and murmurs of inattentive encouragement. Off in her own place.

He pulled out, earning a growl of fury that made him grin. He flopped on his back. "Slows me down to have you at the wheel. Granny day out driver that you are."

"Bastard," she grumbled, but she crawled over him anyway, sinking down on his cock with a moan.

"An' you love it," he said, running his hands up the curve of her waist to capture her swinging breasts. She leaned forward onto his support, her own palms planted on his chest to swivel her hips until they groaned in unison.

"Bloody hell, Alex..."

"Not Bolly?"

His half-closed eyes snapped open. Her face, bare of makeup, was flushed with arousal, her lips plump and red. Her dark lashes swept her freckled cheeks and she turned away from his intense gaze, her gasping mouth catching in the curtain of her swinging hair. She was his.

"Only Alex," he promised, telling her what he'd realised earlier.

She started to question him more, but saw the answer in his gaze.

"That's settled," he said with satisfaction. And speaking of settling things, he could feel his orgasm coming, not a hard knot in his balls way that it had been, but an insistent thumping drum nonetheless. Best to move her along as well. Her breathing was quickening, but she seemed lost in her own enjoyment, not feeling the desperation that was low in his belly.

That place...He sought her clit, now reasonably confident that he knew what he was doing. A bit of pressure snapped her eyes open, and she smiled down at him...He turned his knuckle to it and her head flung back—

"Damn, Gene, oh God...God!"

That did it, he thought with satisfaction just as the bedroom window curtain stirred in a breeze, allowing in blinding light, and the room exploded in brightness. She fell over him, bringing blessed darkness. He clutched her close for relief.

oOo

After sending Gene outside for his morning smoke, grumbling and sex-weakened, Alex quickly showered and dressed before heading to the kitchen while he got ready for the day. She found the packet of Red Rose tea that she'd bought on the way home the previous evening, smiling to herself as she did it. Two mugs next. She was pouring hot water over teabags when he wandered in, tucking in his shirt.

"I won't have any of those herbs and roots mash—"

"No worries. It's your kind," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Ta," he said gratefully, accepting the mug. "Sugar?"

"Really, Gene?" she chastised but began to root through the cupboards, looking for the forbidden sweetener. She had a packet in here someplace...

He ignored her nagging and stared at the tea box. Red rose. Roses...red petals scattered on Bolly's desk, the shaft of jealousy and fear. Operation Rose and Boris. Martin Summers.

She slammed down a bag of sugar. It had hardened and was hell to scrape enough off to properly sweeten his tea.

"Yoghurt?" she asked, head stuck in the fridge.

He was still distracted. "Like I'd want to eat that Swedish snot!" he tossed out, slurping down tea.

"Suit yourself," she said, setting a yoghurt cup for herself on the table. "I don't have anything to fry, I'm afraid. That is, I do have eggs, but no more butter."

"No butter?" He couldn't imagine.

"No. Someone seems to have eaten it all and there's been no time to do any proper shopping," she pointed out and he pouted in response.

"We'll grab a bacon buttie at the caf'," he said.

Between spoonfuls of yoghurt, she told him, "I've checked with the Yard. No sign of Nigel Anthony yet."

"There won't be. He's too clever by half," said Gene, getting up to pour more water on his teabags. He sat again, bringing the box of teabags with him. He tapped the rose on the package. "Martin Summers."

"Nigel Anthony's fixer?"

"Yeah. If I wanted to hide out, I wouldn't go to another blagger. I'd go to a copper."

"Do you think that Summers would do that? I mean, this isn't thievery or fraud. This is murder."

"Summers's killed before," Gene said shortly. "He's as black as they come."

"What?"

"Get your girdle on, luv," he said, rising. "Let's go pay a visit to that shit bucket."

Alex hurried to her bedroom. He called after her, "can I have me gun now?"

"No!" she yelled back.

oOo

Alex barely had time to say, "Gene, this isn't a good idea," before he kicked in Martin Summers's front door. He shouldered through, knocking the swinging door back again. Alex had to follow.

"What the hell is this?" bellowed Summers as he came out of the bathroom, tying his dressing gown.

Gene grabbed him by the robe's lapels and tossed him against the wall. "It's yer nightmare, you bastard!"

Summers's face flushed red as he struggled. "Get your hands off me, you Cockney turd!"

"Cockney?" Gene went livid too. "You haggis fucker, you can kiss my Manchester brick arse!"

Alex got between them. "Dammit, Guv, let him go!"

Gene loosened his grip and Summers struggled free, sweeping his hair back in place. "I'm calling the real police."

Blocking his way to the phone, Gene folded his arms. "First we're going to have a little chat."

"I'll get dressed then," said Summers.

Alex moved into the bedroom doorway. "Not necessary to have trousers on to talk."

The older man tightly crossed his arms, his face flushed with fury once more. "I don't need to speak to you lot."

Gene leaned against the back of the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was in his element, Alex realised. "We can do this two ways, Summers. We only want Anthony. But if you won't give him to us, we'll give you to the Yard."

Summers only looked petulant.

"Operation Rose," said Gene with quiet menace.

"No idea what you're talking about." Summers said this a bit too quickly.

"Yeah, I suppose it's been awhile since you were Constable Summers," Gene mused. "The mind is going."

Alex had no idea what he was up to, but she remained silent.

"It all starts somewhere," he said with a shake of his head. "A young bloke, full of ideals, wanting to do right. But then he comes to a crossroads...Or rather, a cross street. A Brinks van, a lot of gold and guns. Sounding familiar now?"

"What would I know about that?" blustered Summers.

Gene rolled his head back. "Seems to be a boy always remembers his first time." He glanced Alex's way before turning his cold gaze back to Summers. "In your case, your first backhander."

"You're bullshitting," Summers sneered. "You've been lying to the lovely DI Drake all along. You don't know anything. You weren't even a constable at Fenchurch East with me."

"No, he wasn't," Alex said levelly.

"No, I was the DCI," said Gene.

Summers's gaze shot over to Alex but she watched Gene, waiting to see what he'd say next, just as confused as their prey.

"An' it was my patch. I didn't appreciate some wankers coming in and shooting it up. An innocent Brinks driver died that day. Just doing his job. Your DCI, Carnegie, was bent as a coathanger and you just went right along." He pushed off the couch and stalked towards Summers.

Martin Summers's face went pale. "I didn't—"

Gene kept his threats up as he approached. "A slick lawyer can get you off as an accomplice to Anthony's murders. But there's plenty of brass balls upstairs at the Met who covered up that inside job and if we were to bring this all out into the light of day...well, perhaps you'd suddenly find yourself tripping out yer window there."

Summers didn't answer. His features went from white to an unhealthy grey. His breathing became laboured.

Grabbing Summers's dressing gown lapels again, Gene barked, "Well? Time to cough it up!"

Staggering, Summers did just that. He gagged and then vomitted bilious liquid. Gene jumped back and Summers fell heavily to the floor.

"You bastard," Gene growled, brushing the stinking liquid from his overcoat, "you're not gonna get out of this—"

Alex crouched beside Summers and checked his vitals. "He's had a heart attack or stroke, I think. He needs an ambulance." She fumbled for her mobile.

"I better toss this place before those real police get here," said Gene, starting to go through the drawers of a desk.

After making the 999 call, Alex had rolled Summers on his back and began CPR. "You could help!" she yelled to Gene.

Finding nothing in the desk, he moved onto the bedroom. "He's a dead man anyway," Gene said callously. "Don't waste your breath on him."

Furious, Alex continued. She thought that she felt a faint pulse, but if he was breathing, it was too shallow for her to detect. The minutes dragged on as she ministered to the limp body. All the while, she heard the crashing of Gene searching the flat.

At the pounding on the door, she rose and hurried to it. The EMT's swept into the room, focused on their patient. Remaining at the doorway, Alex noticed an overcoat hanging on a hook. She slipped her hand in the pockets, finding a mobile. She put it in her own pocket.

Gene came out of the bedroom. "Will you be able to save him?"

One of the paramedics, a stout older woman, looked up at him. "We've got a heartbeat," she said, obviously not wanting to commit.

"Good." Gene watched Summers be loaded on the stretcher. "You've got to get him talking."

"That I can't promise you. He may have had a stroke, but there seems to be some other underlying health issue."

"His medicine chest is full o' pills," Gene offered. "You might want to take a look at those."

"You're not friends?" The paramedic was wary.

"We're the police, luv." Gene held up his warrant card. "This here is a material witness to the serial killings that have been going on. You've got to get him talking."

"I got his mobile," Alex told Gene quietly as the medics pushed the stretcher out.

Gene pulled his gloved hand from his pocket. "That's interesting," he said. "'cause I found two more in his bedroom."

"Burners," she said excitedly.

"Wot?"

"A very good lead," she promised him, her earlier anger gone. "Come on," she said, grabbing his hand, tugging him out of the flat. "We're close, Gene. Very close. I can feel it."

End ~ chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

Her smiles stretch across her face. Bustling fools rush by, thinking they are making a difference. Yeah, yeah…

Some return her smile, some look curious, but none think to question her presence. Bless these bones, bless this skin, alive and alright.

The room is lighter than she likes. Bless this day? No. She wrestles with the hard plastic slats of the blind, screwing her nose as years' worth of dust escapes its clutches, visibly hanging in the air. Sunshine always showed the putrid dirt. The filth of those in the light is repulsive.

Finally, she slams the blind shut and darkness descends. Bless this night and the power within.

He is a yellow and hollow mess. But she is all for power to the meek. Especially if it gives her the power to speak.

She touches him, holds him, seeking him to come to her until her fingers stung.

Bless these bones, bless this skin.

* * *

While Alex conferred with Tabitha and a forensic IT expert over the burner phones found in Martin Summers's flat, Gene slumped at his desk, keeping an eye out for David Ritchie. When he say the detective headed toward the women, he cut Ritchie off.

"You won't be needed," Gene said.

Ritchie looked Gene over as though meeting him for the first time. "I'm to do the forensics in this section, mate," he sneered.

Gene didn't give ground. "Well, _mate_, you'll be transferred soon. Your old pal Martin Summers is rotten as last week's bananas and we can't trust you on this job."

His face turning an ugly purple, Ritchie backed away. "We'll see about that," he said as a warning, but left the incident room.

Shrugging, Gene dropped back into his chair. "Got anything?" he called over to the women.

Alex shot him a dirty look. "We've just started," she said bossily, "It'll be simply hours, perhaps even days."

Gene leaned back and stared at the ceiling. This real policing was boring stuff. His mind wandered back to more pleasant things, such as shagging Alex Drake. He shifted slightly to cover his arousal. Then he remembered what she'd asked of him that morning and his enthusiasm immediately flagged.

He knew what she was talking about; he wasn't that much of a cack-handed virgin. But he only had the vaguest idea how to accomplish it and had heard nothing positive about the task from all the blustering blokes down at the pub. Then again, none of them had had happy love lives. Maybe Sam, but he wasn't one to share sex tips, more the pity. Something told Gene that as a soppy nancy boy, minge munching would be something that Sam did with enthusiasm.

Perhaps he could find something else that would turn her on, but would be less...intimidating. Then he remembered that she'd talked Chris into stripping for Shaz, and his balls pulled right up into his abdomen. There was no way that he was shaking his bum in her face, down to nothing but his skivvies—

"Penny for your thoughts, Guv," said Donna.

Caught in revelry, he nearly fell out of the chair and had to grasp at the desk. Recovered, he said, "Donna, you're a bird—"

"Here we go again," she said with good humour, sitting on the edge of his desk. "What is it?"

He didn't know where to begin. "Do bird—ladies really like their blokes to…kneel at the altar?"

"What?" Then, the penny dropped, and instead of blushing as he thought she should, Donna just sighed deeply. "Listen, Guv, when we first met, I'd hoped this topic would come up, just a little different setting." She glanced around the incident room.

He blinked in confusion and pouted when he understood. "Sorry," he mumbled as she rose.

She shrugged and walked away.

Hauling himself up too, Gene headed out for a smoke. When he returned, there was a folded piece of paper at his desk. He looked around, but no one was watching him. He opened it. Scrawled in Donna's handwriting was: _google it. Just watch out for underage girl porn. Won't do to get arrested inside a police station._

Confused, he sat at computer. It took him a few to remember how to use the search engine, but he eventually found a website that seemed to promise that it would get straight to the point: _All Oral All the Time__!_ There was even a free trial. After clicking through, he kept the volume low to keep from attracting attention and leaned in close to cover his screen with his wide shoulders.

It brought him uncomfortably near to the action. Some blonde slapper was on her back, giving yelps like a puppy with its paw being trod on. With her harsh makeup and dead eyes, she made Gene uncomfortable. This wasn't his own precious girl with her wonder-filled gaze and dark hair caught on her lips as their bodies came together. This bird's tits slopped around like two cricket balls shoved in socks as she writhed on the bed. He took a sick pleasure in knowing he was getting to rub up on Alex's far superior thrupney bits for free.

The camera panned down to a greasy-haired head stuck between this slut's legs. Now they were getting somewhere. He shifted his chair closer. Only to be revolted. She was bare as a schoolgirl. He'd seen too many nude bodies of murdered children to find this enticing in the least. He nearly turned the flick off when the camera changed angles and Gene could finally get a good gander at what the bloke was doing. The lack of minge was helping him to see everything clearly at least. Once he got past the first visceral reaction of distaste—his tongue _there_—he decided that Alex could wrap her luscious lips around his stinky old todger, he could make an effort too. Then the hussy screeched, "Put it in my fuck box!" in a breathy Essex accent and the wanker popped up to reveal that he was shaved clean too.

"Bloody 'ell," Gene growled, just before Tabitha sharply whispered behind him, "I thought you were different but you're just another dirty old man!"

Gene gaped up at her, his shame blaring in his head like a firetruck's siren. No matter how many buttons that he stabbed on the keyboard, the video wouldn't stop.

Donna rushed over and hit the escape key. The image mercifully disappeared. Without a word, she grabbed Tabitha's arm and dragged her away.

Gene watched her mutter frantically in the younger woman's ear. Tabitha's expression changed from outrage to understanding to horror. She closed her eyes as though she could block out what Donna was telling her. He wanted the floor to crack open so he could drop from the room, mercifully escaping this humiliation.

"Gene," Alex barked in his ear.

He jumped in his chair. "Wot!" he bellowed. These bloody women needed to stop sneaking up on him.

"The hospital called. Summers's doctor will talk to us now."

"He's regained consciousness?" Gene pulled his overcoat from the back of his chair and put it on.

"No, he's still in a coma," Alex said with regret.

oOo

After checking at the reception desk, Alex found the correct doctor to ask about Martin Summers. Gene lurked behind her, obviously impatient.

"He had terminal cardiac disease and appears to have suffered a stroke," the doctor said crisply, "I don't expect him to regain consciousness,"

"Why the hell not?" barked Gene. "Just give him a zap of juice. We need him to talk."

Alex put up a hand to silence him. "May we see Summers?"

"I told you, he's not conscious now, nor will he regain consciousness."

She didn't really know what she was hoping to accomplish. That Gene would lay hands on Summers and bring him back to life? "His room number," she insisted.

With a shrug, the doctor gave it them and hurried off.

Gene led the way into the room and blocked Alex's view. He gave one of his great growls and suddenly charged forward. There was a flurry of motion as he wrestled with someone. Alex rushed in. When she could finally see what was happening, he had Meg Harper pushed up against the wall, his gloved hand at her throat.

Alex tugged him off. "Gene, what the hell are you doing?"

"She was taking 'im," Gene sputtered.

"Taking him?" Alex looked to Meg for answers.

Her superior only smirked as she straightened her clothing. "He's mad," she said coolly. "Surely you've noticed that by now."

"And you're a bloody demon," Gene said, "just like your old pal Keats. I don't care if you take Summers, but not before we get our answers."

"A demon?" Alex asked. "You two, what's going on?" Her hand was still on Gene's arm, squeezing it gently to calm him. She'd never seen him this furious. It was a sort of seething heat that went beyond any professional animosity.

Despite being cornered by two larger people, Meg radiated confidence. She brushed past them to look down Summers's still body. "He's not coming back, Hunt. He's already gone."

"You bitch," Gene growled.

"What is going on!?" demanded Alex.

"You haven't told her, have you?" Meg said, understanding dawning.

"You know about Gene?" Alex said, worried.

"I do. But I wonder if you truly know why he's come to this world," Meg said, narrowing her eyes.

Gene was silent, staring at his feet. His complete change of manner frightened Alex.

"You think he's some angel, here to rescue you. But he's not, Alex. He's here to assure that you come to his world. Just like he pulled Sam Tyler back in."

Gene took a step away.

Meg was talking to him now. "Sam escaped and you appealed to his sense of honour and loyalty. Oh, you and the lads were going to be killed," she mocked. "He went back to save people who were already dead...Never to escape from your world."

She swung around to face Alex who was rooted to the ground. "And he'll do the same to you. He's decided your fate—death."

"No, no," Alex whispered. "He's going to save my life."

"How does he know all these details of your past, Alex?" When she couldn't reply, Meg went on. "Because you're dropped into his world and he won't let you escape." Meg grasped her arm with a claw-like hand. "I'm the only one who can save you. I've been trying to tell you that all along—"

"You're lying." Alex looked to Gene's bowed head. "It can't be—"

"He's come here to fuck you, Alex. He didn't get a chance to do that before pushing you along. That's all."

Alex stepped back from both of them. "No—"

"You think he's some avenging archangel Michael. No, he's Charon, and the journey that he's taking you on only goes one direction. He just collected his toll first."

"Gene!" Alex said sharply, forcing him to look up. She was terrified at the tears that she saw in his eyes. "This isn't true. It's not."

"Get out of here," Gene told Meg. "You've done your damage."

She cackled. "Oh, no, I'm only just getting started." Her cold fingers took Alex's hand. "Ask him how your parents died. He knows, Alex. He knew before and wouldn't tell you. Will he have the balls to tell you now?"

With that, she swept from the room, tossing a look of contempt at Summers on the way.

Alex sank into a chair. "Gene," she murmured.

"Alex, she's just trying to break us up. She can't get her way, so she's going to ruin everything she can—"

"Is it true?" Alex said slowly, each word torn off her heart. "Do you know about my parents? You were there, after all," she added with dawning dread. "Did you kill them?"

He scrubbed his hair in frustration. "I'm just protecting you! It's nothing you want to know."

She leapt up. "You know? Tell me!" Grabbing both his arms, she shook him violently.

"Alex—"

"Tell me!"

He dropped into another chair. Both of them ignored the comatose Summers.

He was quiet when he finally spoke: "It was your father."

"What?"

"Your father got a toerag named Arthur Layton to put a bomb in the car, to kill the three of you. But you got out to chase your balloon."

Her balloon, drifting across the park. The pressure in her chest as she chased after it. The concussion of an explosion, lifting and dropping her.

"My father? No." She couldn't feel her legs. She had to sit again.

"He did it, Alex." Gene reached across and caught her slack hands with his long fingers, a tenuous connection.

"Why? Why would he do that?" It was a child's voice speaking.

"Your mum was messing around with Evan."

Her head shot up. "What? That's crazy—" A man and woman laughing, their words low. The clink of ice in a glass. Two faces turning to meet her gaze, but it wasn't her father sitting close to her mother on the couch. Crawling into a casket, closing the dark lid over her head...

No. It wasn't true. Gene was putting these thoughts in her head; he was the demon. She rose. Their hands broke apart. "You're lying. Meg's right. You've been lying all along."

"Luv, no—"

"Don't love me." She was through the door and gone before he could stop her.

~ end Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

_We have some regular reviewers to whom we can't reply but we just want to thank you for your incredible patience with our slow pace! Your encouragement means a lot to us! _

* * *

He watches her as she applies a slash of red to her wide lips. He's painted his in the past. He'll paint them again, in the future, where they're going. He paints them now. Not for the theatre. For them, for a lifestyle.

He's dusted his face white as a ghost. As white as a clown. He is a clown. The clown with painted lips.

He's the clean shaven one. On the TV and the media, he's the one who will be the clown with painted lips. The one they'll shame.

'There's a lifestyle in the dance halls and the cinema', they'll say. 'Can't you feel the shame?' they'll ask. 'We loved you,' they'll say. Shame they never meant it.

All you need is love day after day. Day after day with painted lips. For him. For her. For love. Day after day on the TV and the dance halls everybody's in it. Such a shame.

She turns. She expects a kiss on her newly painted lips. A shame that all he remembers is kissing him. Him kissing her. Kissing him in the dance halls, his greasy hair caught between his fingers, his painted lips pressing his without her. Now there's a lifestyle he remembers. Such a shame she wants to change to her kissing only him. He's made her do it. He wants her all to himself. They both want to shame him, to change all his pride and poetry to shame.

He watches her as she climbs into the car. She's got brand new shoes. She should always wear red. The scarlet woman. Now there's a lifestyle with fashion chic.

There's a lifestyle and everybody in it wants to be elite. It don't exist! Only shame!

She wants to listen to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. She looks at him strange when he says no as they know no shame.

He watches her in the mirror, smiles with his painted lips when she climbs into the back. Such a shame. There's a lifestyle on TV, but like her mother she is tinged in red. The colour glows from her. She will be scarlet forever like her mother. Like her father's painted lips. Such a shame.

She will be the shame of her father. Her father will turn white with shame.

Turn white like a clown. A white clown with painted lips.

Such a shame.

* * *

Alex didn't remember driving to Evan's office building. Leaving her car at the kerb and ignoring the call of the security guard, she pushed through the entry doors with a loud bang. Barrelling into Evan's office without knocking, she brushed aside his nattering assistant and ignored the stares of his clients.

"Is something wrong, Alex?" Evan asked, removing his glasses.

"Yes, something is very wrong," she said tonelessly.

After a pause to consider her mood, Evan ushered everyone out and closed the door behind them.

He came towards her, arms outstretched to give comfort as he would when she was a child. "What is it?"

She moved away. Now that he stood before her, she didn't know what to ask or how to ask it, but she had to know. "Did you love her?"

His brow furrowed. "Who?"

She just looked back. Finally she said, "There's only ever been one." Yes, only one woman. Such a lonely man.

The colour drained from Evan's face. "Has he contacted you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Frustrated, she shook her head. "You should have told me about the affair a long time ago."

Evan searched her face for any softness. Alex's gaze was steady and unrelenting. He nodded as though realising he was left with no recourse.

"I loved them _both_ very much," he said quietly. "We all acted on our needs so much more freely in those days. There was no plan on anyone's part.

Tim loved her first and he wanted to please her—One evening, I brought over this video, _Women in Love,_ and we had had too much Chardonnay. At first we thought she was teasing, but it was what she wanted and neither of us could deny her..."

Alex felt bile rising her throat, but Evan kept talking, her distress unnoticed. His hands clasped behind his back, he looked out his office windows over the rainy cityscape.

"In the beginning it was just about Caroline's pleasure, but then...I think Tim was disgusted at his own desires and wanted to stop—oh, what am I saying?" He flailed his hand in Alex's direction but didn't look at her. "It awakened feelings that none of us could manage. He thought that she saw him as less of man because of what we did, and that she was leaving him for it. She wasn't; she was leaving us both..." His shoulders slumped. "I feel so much better that you know. All these years—"

His voice sounded very far away. She went cold to the point of shaking, then suddenly blazing hot. Urgency burned in her throat, and she found his wastepaper basket right before she threw up.

"Darling, I'm so sorry," he babbled. He stood too close. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand—the smell swarmed up through her nose and another wave of nausea nearly overcame her,

She moved out of his reach. "Don't touch me."

"I told you, it was just one of those things—"

"Which things? Fucking my parents or lying to me about it for thirty years?"

"It wasn't like that—"

Everything was a lie. Her parents' love-filled marriage, her memories of their martyred deaths, her faithful godfather...

Evan was still talking. "Your mother was a force of nature. Tim must have thought that doing that awful thing was the only way to be in control again—"

"I'm going to throw up again. Just shut up." Alex clutched her head. "Shut up!"

"I need you to understand—"

"This isn't about what you need anymore," she said, cold like her mother. "What I want is for you to piss off." She shrugged off his hand as he tried to stop her from leaving. "Just keep out of my life." When she slammed his office door, it was loud as a coffin's lid closing.

oOo

Oblivious to the light rain falling, Alex stood beside her car. She didn't know if she was safe to drive. Numbness kept washing over her and her chest was as tight as if she were drowning. None of this could be true and yet it had to be; she could feel it in her in heart.

Finally, she got in and drove off, but not home. The thump of the wipers louder than her thoughts, the Thames appearing and disappearing from her view until she arrived at her destination.

Her former girls' school still stood, now expanded with shining steel and glass. She'd never gone back after her parents' death. Evan had thought it would be too difficult for her to look out the windows at the scene of the explosion. Perhaps that's when it had all become but a dream in her mind.

The day-long drizzle had stopped. She turned up her coat collar on the cold mist that drifted across the rise, blanketing everything and blocking out the meagre sunlight. The white haze drifting along to obscure the school. Her boots sank into the lawn, and she struggled up the slope, determined. Looking down on the road, she tried to picture those final minutes again. Her red balloon escaping as she got in the backseat of Uncle Evan's car. Her mother demanding that she let it go. The click of the door. Daddy asking if she'd like music. Tinkling notes filling the vehicle. Watching for her balloon through the window. An ugly man staring back at her as the car passed him. Her father's gaze meeting hers in the rearview mirror. He would do that while driving, to assure that she was secure and safe...He was always taking care of her and her mum—

No. The adult Alex recognised that expression now. She'd seen it time and again in killers' eyes; the obsessive ownership of another body and soul. Closing her own eyes, she returned to the exact moment and all its searing pain. Her father wasn't going to let her live, to dare be happy when he was so wretchedly unhappy. Had there been a balloon at all—it floated alongside the car as though pulled by an invisible hand. Or had she sensed the danger and ran...her mother had called to her out the car window. Caroline's hand was on the door handle to give chase. Evan was running toward the car, calling out for Tim to stop. He had to do it now or he might lose his chance to kill his slut wife too.

The concussion from the explosion—

She was able to fight down the nausea this time. Her red balloon tugged her up the hill and out of the fog, into a bright light, so bright it burned her eyes. She raised her face to the sun, but there was only darkness—the solid weight of his chest, the welcoming black of his overcoat. Her legs gave way but he caught her before she could drop.

She was lifted and cradled. "I got you," was his rough voice at her ear. "The Gene Genie's got you."

He tucked her in the passenger seat of her car but when he started the motor, she jumped and couldn't stop her gasp of shock. He immediately put his arm around her, cupping her face with his warm, gloved hand to hold her against his shoulder.

"How'd you know where to find me?" she asked through chattering teeth.

"You needed me, and I was there. That's how it works." He gave her one of his quick sideways smiles. "Besides, where else would you have gone?"

Nodding, she leaned back, letting her eyes drift shut. She lost time again; they were at her flat. Ignoring her protests, he swept her up in his arms once more and carried her inside. He didn't set her down until they were in the bathroom.

He held her face in his hands and stared into her eyes. "You got chunder in 'our hair," he said tenderly.

She fell against his chest and began to laugh, which turned quickly to sobs. He rocked her before finally giving her a nudge. "Go on you, have a wash up."

When she remained standing there with her gaze downcast, he helped her out of her clothes and led her into the shower. "You'll be alright?"

She stared at him blankly from under water.

"Alex?"

She pulled his head under the spray to press a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Gene," she said gravely. "I was a bitch to you at the hospital—"

Rubbing his hair dry with a towel, he grumbled, "You doolally tart," but then said, "I'll put the kettle on."

He had a steaming cup on her bedside table when she wandered in, holding her gown's lapels closed tightly at her neck.

"Better now?" He was bustling around the bedroom, fluffing up the pillows on both sides of the bed.

Sipping her tea and ignoring the burning on her tongue, she didn't answer his question. "I _am_ sorry, Gene."

He held up a hand to wave off her apology. She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her chest. "I was just so frightened that you were lying to me, like it seems that everyone else has." With horror, she felt tears rising in her throat. After everything that had happened this day, this was the first time she wanted to cry.

He flipped the duvet back and pushed her down on the mattress. "I don't lie," he said firmly.

"You just don't tell everything," she said as she swung her legs up and allowed him to tuck the duvet under her chin. As her eyelids drooped and she could feel waves of exhaustion washing over her, she mumbled, "Ridiculous being in bed so early. Got to call the Met—"

"Leave it, luv," he told her, clicking off the light. "Take a bit of a kip."

"Gene..." Her voice was only a whisper.

"Yeah."

"Lay down with me."

"Of course." He stripped down to his boxers quickly.

"You probably have things to do," she said as he crawled under the bedcovers with her.

"I'm stayin' put." Snuggling up behind her, he wrapped his arm around her middle and buried his nose in her damp hair.

She was barely awake. "I suppose you are," she breathed before falling asleep.

Gene didn't expect to sleep with everything on his mind. His fury at that Meg bitch still hot, and there was that damn Nige out looking for his next victim. But he felt as though a clock was running down for him and he wanted to spend the last few seconds that he had remaining just looking at Alex.

"You great... soft... sissy... girlie... nancy," he whispered very quietly so not to wake her.

oOo

He hadn't slept; only closed his eyes. A gentle, "Gene," made him open them.

"Yeah," he mumbled. She'd rolled to face him. He reached over her to turn on the lamp. No good conversations occurred in the dark.

"Now that we've had some rest—" She lay a hand on his stubbled cheek. "All of it, Guv."

His jaw tightened. "All what?"

"You know," she said stubbornly. "Everything. What really happens to me. How I end up in your world."

Scrubbing his face with the heels of his palms, he grumbled but still didn't say anything.

She gulped down tears. "I've just found out that my whole life as I understood it was a lie. Please, Gene. Tell me the truth about my death."

He was silent for so long she didn't think that he was going to respond. Then the words: "You're to be shot in the head."

She blinked but remained silent.

"You showed up in 1981. I knew that I was getting a new DI named Alex Drake. Course I thought it was a bloke. But there you were—"

"Dressed as a prossie."

"Right."

She tried to put the pieces together. "I go back in time..."

"Not really, I 'pose. I know that now," he said darkly, "it's a time that never really existed."

"It was real to you though."

Gene shrugged.

She might as well get used to the idea. She repeated what he'd told her: "I'm shot in the head." Her shaking fingertips traced his temple where a bullet hole should be.

"Need a fag," he said abruptly. Before she could stop him, he rolled off the mattress and fled the room.

After pulling on her dressing gown, she followed, but went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. When under great duress, one must have tea. Almost as an afterthought, she brought down a packet of pink wafers and another of Garibaldi biscuits from the cupboard.

Leaning over the sink, she craned her neck to look out the window. Gene was slumped on the bench, his bright head wreathed in blue smoke. He must be freezing in his boxers. She'd leave him to it though.

When he returned, she was pouring hot water over his Red Rose teabag and her fragrant loose leaf tea in a strainer.

"Me knackers are up around my tonsils," he complained.

"Come here, silly man," Alex said, opening her dressing gown.

He ogled her naked body. "That'll warm me up."

Pulling him close, she wrapped the gown around both of them as far as it would go. Laying her head on his shoulder, she rubbed his back, transferring her warmth to his chilled skin.

"Tha' nice," he mumbled into her hair. He managed to snag his mug and take a deep slurp of hot tea over her shoulder.

"I need to know more, Gene," she said softly.

"What the hell for?" He stepped away from her embrace.

"What for? Because I need to understand!" She belted her dressing gown tightly.

"You always do," he groaned. "You're like me old Uncle Den who's gotta take apart every toaster to see how it works." Nose buried in his own mug, he could feel her intense gaze. He leaned on the table and pouted. "Three. I'll give you three questions."

"Three? Like a genie's wishes?" She shook her head. "What sort of relationship do we have here?" she ranted, "where you don't take my deepest fears seriously?"

His features remained stubborn. "You don't take my frets seriously either."

"What do you mean?"

"This is nothing to mess with." He waved his hand up and down his body. "How the bloody hell am I here? With arms and legs and oh, right, a 'ead with no 'ole in it!" He tapped his temple. "We got one thing that we need to do; catch Nige so he can't pop you. End of." With a harrumph, he signalled that the topic was closed.

Squinting, she weighed up her options. He was a tough old nut, but she was confident that she knew the way to crack him open. Settling back against the benchtop, she shifted her legs so that her robe fell open to her upper thigh. Gene blinked slowly. Grabbing a handful of biscuits, he stuffed them in his mouth.

She started: "Like with Sam, I work in the CID on your team, solving crimes?"

He was relieved at the straightforward question. "Yeah," he said. spitting crumbs. "Chasing down armed bastards in the Quattro, slapping around the scum, then off to the boozer for lunch."

His gaze was distant; he was in that dream world of his own creation. "This is 1981?" she asked, "before my parents died?" Everything kept coming around to them.

"Yeah, that's why you're wit' me. You sort out something that's been preying on your mind."

"Sam mentioned that he encountered his father, came to understand why Vic Tyler abandoned his family. He didn't tell me the details though. I could see that it distressed him greatly."

Gene's gaze shifted away and he ate another handful of pink wafers. He was right; he was not a good liar. Alex pushed. "My parents' deaths do prey on my mind."

"Yeah," he mumbled, obviously nervous.

She refilled his mug with hot water, still thinking. "If I were to find myself in 1981, I would talk to them—" The words caught in her throat. To just hug her mother and father one more time—the Mum and Dad that she'd held in her heart until just a few hours ago.

He lowered his head to his mug again but winced when the tea burnt his lip. Or was it something more?

"You're a copper, remember? You were nothing but a stinking pig to your parents."

She slumped, gripping the edge of the benchtop for support. "I would be. Yes. But that wouldn't stop me from fighting to save them."

He gave a nod. "You did."

"But I can't, in your world? It's not a place about changing fate, right?"

He folded his arms tightly and stared at his bare feet. She could see this was making him terribly uncomfortable but she had to go on. "I find out my father was responsible for my mother's death, then I die?"

"You've used up your three questions."

"That was a single line of inquiry," she said, ignoring his head rolling back in exasperation. "This is my second."

After a martyred sigh, he answered: "No, you didn't die."

She raised her eyebrows. Then was surprised to notice that Gene was blushing. "What is it?"

He gulped down the last Garibaldi but complained, "These aren't Fine Fare. Can't even get a decent biscuit in this damn world."

She wouldn't be diverted. "Fine Fare shops went out of business twenty years ago. What is it?"

He rubbed the floor with his toe. "I liked having you around."

She snagged his fingers, pulling his hand into hers. He still didn't meet her eyes when he muttered, "I told myself that I was making you a proper cop but—"

"It's alright, Gene," she said gently.

He tugged his hand loose. "The first time you left—" A chill swept over her scalp. "I brought you back."

"I had more to learn," she suggested.

"Right," he blustered. "I know my job. The Chief Super sits upstairs at his desk, doesn't know anything about the streets!"

"Right," she echoed soothingly.

"But then this Jim Keats from D&amp;C, he's the mate of that bitch Meg, came to investigate my methods." His head dropped again. "Started writing reports."

"And I had to leave."

"Yeah."

"How long? Sam was in your world for two years before he returned to 2006, but only a few months passed then."

"Three years," he said shortly.

Tipping her head, she said, "I can understand your frustration now. We had a close relationship, even if it wasn't sexual. A lot of late nights?" He nodded again. "There was intimacy and closeness—" He shifted, obviously uncomfortable for such talk. "And then this Alex has you tasered."

"It's alright."

"No, it's not." She gulped back the lump in her throat. "I really hope that you're right, and you are able to stop my death. I'd hate for you to go through falling in love with me over again only to have me die on you."

His fire was back. "Not likely. I tried to forget...Forget you, my own death, but I can't—" He crossed the void to cup her cheek. "I won't."

She had to believe. "Perhaps you've been set free."

"I don't know." It shook her to hear him sound so lost.

One last question: "Do you know who kills me?"

He stepped back again. "When you first showed up, you went hot on the trail of this toerag, Arthur Layton. We locked him up, but your father bailed him out in time to rig the bomb. Tabby helped me track Layton down. He's just gotten out of the nick."

"That's the parolee that you were searching for."

"Yeah. Somehow you must know he killed your parents—"

"You're telling me now."

"Damn. Right." He rubbed his head again. "I thought Layton was your shooter, but it's got to be Nigel. I was chasing his dad and landed here, now on his trail. It's all got to be tied together."

She moved to lean on the table beside Gene. "I think that I did know all along. Now that I see the events while knowing the truth, the real situation is obvious." She bumped his shoulder with hers. "I think you've saved my life already. Sam was right. The truth has set me free."

He peered at her down his nose. "But the truth hurts too."

She repressed the urge to tell him that for a man who didn't believe in psychology, he had excellent perceptions. Instead, she said, "This is the hardest part for me to accept. How Evan could take my parents' place in my life, all the while hiding his role in their deaths."

"That bastard. Yer mum wasn't even dead yet and he was sniffing around you, not knowing who you were."

"Sniffing around!? But I knew who he was...surely I didn't sniff back?" She looked appalled.

Gene turned aside, gazing sadly at the empty biscuit plate.

She slapped his arm to get his attention. "I didn't!"

"Got me worried, you did. You told me it was complicated and I thought you were just having one over on me. Now I see that it was complicated like that Greek fellow, Eddie."

"Eddie? Oh, do you mean Oedipus?"

"'spose."

"It would be an Electra complex, actually, but it doesn't matter."

"He left a video, your father did. The usual thing," Gene said gruffly, "how if he couldn't have your mum, the three of you had to die."

"I never saw that—"

"I destroyed it. I didn't want little Alex Price to be hurt by what her father did. I didn't know she was you," he told her. "You didn't tell me."

"I kept a lot of lies too, I suppose."

"Gets to be a habit."

"Yes. I learnt it in my family." She folded her arms tightly. "It's so odd. I remember things now from my childhood that I'd always accepted what happened, but now... How Evan was always there; I'd come into rooms and he'd be standing too closely to my mother, to my father."

"Your father?" Gene asked, confused.

"I suppose that I knew on some level that Evan slept with my mother, but my child's mind couldn't comprehend that the three of them—"

Outraged, Gene stood bolt upright. "Those perverts! And damn liars! Evan and Caroline 'fessed that they were shagging each other, but you're saying your mother was a bit of sweet meat in a three-way butty!"

"I shouldn't judge," she said with a shrug.

"Well, I will! Blokes might want to spice up their lovelife with a few bibs and bobs here and there, but bringing more than one cock into it will only result in a cock up. No wonder your Dad snapped like he did."

"It just doesn't make any sense though. How could he feel that way if he were sleeping with Evan too—"

Gene cut her off. "I don't want to 'ear a single detail!"

"He was just trying to make her happy."

"Which one?"

"Both of them," Alex said with a bitter laugh. "I tried to please her too, and never quite succeeded."

"Bitch—" Gene quickly added, "Sorry, Alex, but she was cold, I tell you."

"The thing is, Gene, you didn't really know her...Did you? How were they in your world?"

He was very uncomfortable when she asked him the mechanics of his existence. It was like trying to understand why some people would follow Man U instead of City. "They're dead, aren't they?"

"It's just all so confusing." She passed her hand over her eyes as though she could brush away the flickering memories. The room was silent but for the ticking of the wall clock. "It's late...or too early," she said. "We should get back to bed." She felt as though many layers of her skin had been burnt off this day. If he touched her, would she scream in pain or shatter as if releasing a long pent-up orgasm?

He did touch her, stroking her neck with his fingertips and she chose passion. There were only two people in the world and they were a breath apart in this kitchen. She stepped close enough to feel his chest rising and falling.

Gene was relieved that she seemed willing to let it drop. He snagged a strand of her hair and curled it around his finger. His Bolly...

His lips at her ear, he murmured, "I get why a bloke would do anything for his bird, do whatever he knew would make her happy. Never thought I'd feel that way..." He swept open her gown, revealing her flushed skin to his hungry gaze.

The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. "I'm like my mum after all?"

"Let's make a rule," he grumbled, "no talking about your pervy parents when we're goin' at it."

She gave a watery laugh. Laying a hand on his cheek, she examined his face as though memorising his features. "I want to believe, Gene."

He kissed her chin, her throat, her collarbone. "Anything," he breathed.

Guiding his head back to her mouth, she kissed him deeply, making her intentions clear.

She felt his twitching erection against her bare thigh. "You've warmed up, I see." She started to head to the bedroom but he held her back.

"Here," he rumbled and her legs went weak.

"You're catching on fast for a beginner," she teased. "Making love all over the house—"

His brow furrowed, he looked around the kitchen. "Not that so much—" He led her back to benchtop. "Maybe this will work—"

She squealed as he lifted her to sit on it. "What the hell, Gene?"

"I can't figure out how we'll fit in the bed fer this," he confessed. "We're too bloody tall. I'd just fall off the end." He glanced over at the dining table chairs, and grabbed one, dragging it closer. "I think this'll work, I'll apply the five P's—"

"What are..." Alex said.

He sat down before her. "Prior preparation prevents pisspoor performance," he sprouted.

She giggled, but then sobered as he nudged her knees apart. "Oh." Don't giggle, don't giggle—she giggled again. "This is an eat-in kitchen after all."

He gave her a withering look. "You're not 'elping."

Putting her hands on his shoulders, she gazed deeply into his eyes and took a deep breath to control her laughter.

He grumbled, "Just want to do right by you."

"You will," she assured him before kissing him again, a soft exploration of his mouth as her hands smoothed along his neck and shoulders, sweeping the tension from his muscles. He relaxed, his own touch gliding under her robe, brushing lightly over her breasts and down her stomach before squeezing her thighs.

She whimpered against his tongue. Despite his uncertainty, he could feel her fragility and it strengthened his resolve. He wanted to be her hero. Tugging his mouth loose from hers, he followed the path of his hands down her body, suckling with aching gentleness at her heated skin. He lay his head on her thigh for a moment, breathing in her scent. All his fantasies had been in one dimension. Now that he could taste and smell her, his daydreams about her seemed as childish as his drawings. Hours of crude toilet talk about women with the lads were forgotten.

"Tell me what you want," he said quietly as he drew circles on her other thigh with his thumb.

"Well, if you insist," she gasped, arching back. When her head hit the window, she had a moment of panic. Could anyone see? Then she decided to fuck it all. Let them enjoy the show. Shaking with chills and waves of heat, she draped her legs over his shoulders. Holding herself open with one hand, she guided his face closer with the other, holding her breath to see if the lion would bow his head.

Tentative, he gave her clit a sweep of his tongue, light as a moth's wings on her cheek. His fingertips ghosted over her thighs, up to the tender skin behind her knees. She was already shaking so hard that she had to grip the benchtop tightly to stay on it.

"Jesus, Gene!"

His head snapped up. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't you dare fucking stop!" she ordered, grabbing his hair roughly.

"Cool yer jets, you soppin' pair o' knickers."

"That was very good," she said primly, sounding like a schoolmarm. "Gently does it."

He gave a snort. "Softly, softly," he muttered before returning to his task.

An unknown land. He was lost, his mind overcome. As with every time that they'd had sex, Gene swore that he was going to slow the pace and remember every sensation and detail. After all, this could end at any moment and he'd spend eternity with nothing but his memories to wank off to. He needed some good material here.

Instead, he was drowning in her, only flashing moments and feelings registered. The slide of her calves along his shoulders. The scent of deep woods and a distant ocean. The softest skin that he'd ever felt slid under his tongue and lips. His own arousal thumping a pulse hard against his belly. Heat soaking his hair. Her voice, with a timbre as he'd never heard before but wanted to hear forever, telling him to do that more, to use his fingers, deeper, harder now, right there—

She gripped his hair harder still, her heels thumped at his spine and the endless stream of instructions turning into a babble and sobbing of release. She slumped and gently pushed his face away. "Enough," she gasped, "too sensitive now."

He fell back in the chair and had to shift to give his own hard-on some relief. "Oh, you poor baby," she mumbled, pushing the hair back from her face. "You'll have your reward." She tugged him up to stand, pulled him close and shoved his boxers down. "You were wonderful," she said, her schoolmarm tone still there.

"I should think so," he grumbled. "Last person to put me through my paces like that was my sixth form footie manager."

She gave him a gentle slap but kissed the corner of his mouth at the same time. "You've earnt your man of the match for sure."

He harrumped but it turned to an unmanly squeal when she grasped his length tightly. "Shit, woman, this is going to be over—"

That was her exact intention. She worked him hard and fast and he could only surge into her hand helplessly.

Her mouth was at his ear. "I'd say you earnt that desk sex too. What do you want, Gene? You want me flat on my back, you're pounding me into the files? Or bent over—"

"Yeah, skirt up—" He'd wanked off many a time to just that fantasy but to have it be her hand instead of his—and he was gone, coming all over their stomachs.

Her laugh was just a little bit nasty but that turned him on too. As he sagged against her, he vaguely wondered if he was truly under the thumb and if so, was that a problem.

She hopped off the bench top. "Clean up and a bit more sleep, I'd say," she said bossily.

Sleepy, he trailed behind her. Yep, she definitely had him by the short and curlies.

oOo

Gene heard Alex's mobile ringing faintly out in the entry. Glancing down at her sleeping form, he slipped from the bed and hurried to silence it. When he saw Tabitha's name on the screen, he answered. "Yeah," he whispered grumpily.

"DCI Hunt?"

"Yeah."

"Is DI Drake available?"

He ignored her request. "What is it?"

"The burner phones. I have a possible location for Nigel Anthony."

"Just possible?"

"A strong possibility."

"Give me the address." He wrong it down quickly. Back on the East End. He knew this must be the place; rats always returned to their favourite hole.

"You'll bring DI Drake and meet me there?"

"Sure." He glanced toward the bedroom. It was still dark; Alex must still be sleeping. He was going to keep it that way. "And Tabby, check me out a gun. I'll be there in ten."

He switched off the mobile, silencing Tabitha's protests.

~ End Chapter 21

E/N: Yeah, we took some creative license with the Prices and Evan, but frankly, that vibe with the three of them gave us both a distinct impression.


	22. Chapter 22

He needs to wake; wake from the dream.

Below him is the ocean. Above him the open wind. She's beside him. She's tempting. They act like lovers do.

"I want to dive into your ocean," he begs.

Only he remembers in the dream. The rain falls, falls like a memory. Memories of a steel grey bullet and red blood seeping from its strike. Memories of falling and emotions and tragedy. He watches the memories. He counts the memories. One memory is missing, but here it comes again.

Next, the ocean disappears and he's walking in the wind. The rain is still falling, steel grey sheets slashing against the sunset tinged with red.

He searches through the colours and she's there to breathe in the open wind.

"Is it raining with you?" he calls.

She doesn't answer. She is there but not to talk or to walk. Not to kiss like lovers do. She is his love but she is falling. Falling like a new memory.

He's going forwards to arrive backwards. Forwards through a steel grey door, arriving back in a field decorated with red balloons.

He's falling, diving. It's a new emotion, a new ocean, a new memory.

The blue of the ocean turns steel grey. The red rain falling like a tragedy. He's swallowed, and it's unclear whether there's the promise of release from the whale.

He wakes. Searches the room. It's only the steel grey of his suit, the red of her silk blouse. He declares he'll create his new memory, like lovers do.

He needs a drag on a heart starter after having his heart stop in the dream, so he rises.

Outside there is an open wind but he still manages to light up, twirls the familiar fag, watching its end turn from red to steel grey.

He strolls to the edge of the garden, looks up at the stars, and then he's diving into the ocean.

_Here it comes again._

* * *

Tabby chased Alex into the dark office building, babbling her apologies. She'd been fruitlessly trying to explain to her superior exactly how Gene Hunt had gotten this address out of her and had convinced her to let him go in alone after checking out a weapon at the Yard.

"DI Drake, we don't know that Nigel Anthony is actually here—"

Alex ignored her and swept the dim foyer with her torch. Her heart was thundering but she tried to ignore it. She'd never been so frightened. The right sneaky bastard acted as though he was bending to her will, only to slither off in the dark of night once he'd had his bit of slap and tickle.

She paused for a moment and shook her head. Damn, she was even beginning to think like him.

"What's this?" bellowed a male voice from the darkness, his voice thick with a Northern accent. But it wasn't Gene. Alex knew every note of his tone by now.

Security guard; a waddling stout old trout in a straining brown uniform. She barked at him, "Have you seen a tall, blond man? Black overcoat?" while flashing her identity card at him.

Properly cowed, the guard began to babble. Yes, a rude man, a very rude man—it was Gene.

"Where'd he go?" she said, cutting off the narrative of abuse and disrespect.

"He asked after the office of Martin Summers. I tol' 'im to come back tomorrow, but he made me open up the files and find it. Took me damn near an hour," the guard grumbled resentfully.

After shaking the floor and room number from him, and brushing off his offers to come along as their backup, the women rode the lift up, silent with tension their own brooding thoughts. Alex was able to breathe a bit, knowing that they weren't that far behind Gene, but she needed to see and touch him for the tension to loosen in her chest.

They were in a chillingly silent building with small cheap offices intended to be mailing addresses for shell companies. A few were occupied, mostly by internet startups. Green light glowed under the doors of late night programmers, but no one stuck their heads out to see why the two women ran frantically down the corridor.

Spotting the room number first, Tabitha pointed to a door. Alex held up her hand, halting the young constable. As she turned the knob, the hair pricked up on the back of her neck. She wished that she'd taken the time to check out a weapon as well.

Alex eased the door open and slowly entered. Her fear was swept aside by a thundering need to assure that Gene was safe but the room was empty. There was only a single desk sitting in the middle of the room. The lamp was on. Alex checked the dark corners and found a bundle of blankets, proof that someone had been sleeping there. An empty packet from a Nigel Anthony pork pastie suggested who it had been.

"What now?" Tabitha whispered, staying in the doorway to keep watch.

"How far away are reinforcements?" Alex asked.

After checking her radio, Tabitha told her, "Ten minutes out, ma'am."

She couldn't wait. Back out in the corridor, Alex looked both ways, then chose the stairwell.

Tabitha called out, "Ma'am!"

Ignoring her, Alex banged through the door to the stairs, heading to the roof. Something told her to go up. Angels fly, after all.

xox

Gene stood in the lee of a large duct, sheltered from the wind. He remained hidden as he waited for his sight to adjust to the darkness. Dawn was on the horizon. Nigel preferred night, staying in the shadows. They were running out of time and like sharks, both men needed to move to remain alive.

As though he could create the killer out of his thoughts in this world too, a shadow took on a man's shape, sliding silently across the rooftop. Tossing away his cigarette, Gene followed, keeping his footfall quiet. Still, Nigel must have sensed his presence and turned.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, taking a step away.

"Stop right there, Nig," Gene said. He felt oddly anxious. Bloody bird took his edge off. He could smell her hair. He pulled out his gun. "Come along now."

Nigel smirked. "I don't think so."

Gene motioned to Nigel. "No need to fret, that's a good boy. These limp-wristed nancies will pop you in a posh cell with colour telly and a Swedish duck feather-filled duvet. No rope in this world."

"Sounds lovely, but I'll pass."

"So where you gonna go?" Gene was between his prey and the roof access door.

Nigel strolled to the edge of the roof and leaned over, looking down. "Perhaps...2016? Or back to '85?"

"What're you on about?" Gene could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

"Things are a bit hot here, I must say." Nigel swung a leg over to straddle the roof ledge.

Gene eased closer. "It's not going to be better in another time."

"What do you mean? You won't be there to stop me." Nigel grinned. His expensive dental work flashed in the dim dawn. "As a matter of fact, I think I will go back to the 80's. I'll be more help to dear old Dad as an adult."

Gene flinched. "Damn you!"

"Right," drawled Nigel as he put his other leg over to sit on the ledge. "And no sheriff in town to stop us."

Gene lunged forward just as Nigel slipped over. Grabbing frantically, Gene got handfuls of jacket and strands of hair, then miraculously, a swinging hand slapped against his arm. He gripped the fingers with all his strength, and Nige arched beneath him like a pendulum on a clock.

"Bugger off!" Nigel screamed up at him.

Ignoring his protests, Gene tossed away his gun and grasped Nigel's wrist with both hands. "Yer nicked," he huffed.

Nigel struggled, swinging back and forth, attempting to break free. His shoulders aching, Gene held on as tightly as he could.

"Back to my world," Nigel threatened, panting with frustration. "No Northern flatfoot to get in my way."

"Stayin' right here—"

Running footfall approached and Alex called out, "Gene!"

Ignoring her, Gene leaned farther over, trying to get more leverage. He put a knee on the ledge, inching Nigel up higher and dared to shift one hand down to grasp his elbow.

"Gene!" Alex grabbed his shoulder, trying to pull him back.

Nigel gasped, "You want to come with me, you big bastard?" He scrabbled at the wall with his feet, managed to get purchase and kicked back with such force that Gene was pulled forwards.

"No!" Alex screamed. Her arms wrapped about his shoulders and Gene had one terrible moment to make his choice. He released Nigel's hand and flung himself back to knock Alex to the roof and he on top of her.

Scrambling to his feet, Gene looked over the ledge, to see Nigel's twisted body on the wet pavement below. On the dark street, only his white face was bright against its halo of red. His grin was with blood-stained teeth.

Alex tugged Gene away from the edge and into her arms. "It's over. It's over."

Weak, Gene sagged against her. "I s'pose it is," he muttered, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair. It was over, but he was still there with Alex.

Outside the building, sirens signalled the arrival of reinforcements. Ignoring the swarming constables, Alex and Gene rushed to Nigel's crumpled body. His skull was crushed but his features were intact. Alex was chilled at the smile on Nigel's face—like Sam Tyler's, the only peaceful, even joyful expression that she's ever seen on a blunt force death victim. Gene stood stock still, wholly focused on the killer.

Tabitha was directing constables to roll out the blue and white tape, holding back the few early morning gawkers. Alex felt a gaze on her and met it—a man with greasy dark curls and black aviator glasses despite the weak light. While others were chattering nervously with each other or into mobiles, he stared at her. She turned her back on him.

Taking Gene's hand, she told him, "Let's go. There's nothing more that we can do."

The sheet was flipped over Nigel's face and Gene finally looked up. "I s'pose," he repeated, sounding no more convinced.

xox

Gene and the rest of the team watched Alex doing a news conference on a flat screen TV in their incident room. Donna had brought in bottles of Prosecco, which was passed around in tea mugs. The team was ecstatic with the end to a tough case, cheering on every line from Alex. Gene leant on a desk right in front of the TV, but waved away Tabitha's offer of the wine.

"None of that baby pisswater for me," he growled, pulling his flask from his jacket pocket.

Before heading to Scotland Yard's press briefing room, Alex had whipped on a skirt, put up her hair, and slapped on a dash of makeup from the bag in her top drawer. Gene had watched her, befuddled by the ease with which she willfully transformed herself. If she could look this gorgeous so easily, why didn't she do it all the time?

"Because it's uncomfortable and a pain the ass," she'd said breezily. "But you can feel free to wear these heels if you think they look so great," she'd added as she'd hopped around on one foot while pulling on her pump.

On the television though, she was cool and collected, fielding questions from the room full of journalists. Her confidence and smugness made him give a quick smile, but his dark mood remained.

When the press conference was over, the cry went up for the party to move to the closest pub.

"I'll wait 'ere for the Boss," Gene said, waving them off. He turned his back on their knowing looks and dropped into his desk chair.

In a pointed gesture, Donna turned the overhead lights off on him as she left. He didn't mind. He preferred the dark. He lit a cigarette, damning the no smoking signs, and fetched an empty mug to fill from his flask. Went down faster that way.

Nigel's taunts still rang in his ears. Here he was, stewing in his own rancid juices, while that poxy scum had probably killed some girl and laid her out on the Fenchurch East steps. With only silly old Poirot left to clean up.

Gene's fist slammed on the desk, causing the computer monitor to sway. He glared back at his reflection in the dark screen. and scowled at his soppy sagging features. Coward. But there was no way to be the hero!

Alex sashayed into the room on her way to her office but stopped at the sight of him. "Gene, what in the world are you doing here in the dark? I passed everyone else heading to the pub." She opened her office door and flicked on the light. "I just need to grab my handbag..."

Gene hauled up from his chair and trailed after her. Alex was crackling with that energy he remembered so well. He was drawn like a moth out of the night and to a flame. She tugged her hair down from its chignon and shook her head like a spaniel.

The sight lifted his mood—and a bit more—for a moment. His sexy librarian with a strand of hair snared on her damp lips. She narrowed her eyes at his sloppy smirk. "You're in a funny mood, Gene."

He glanced over his shoulder. The room stood empty and dark. He ran a finger along her desktop and lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

Missing his hint, she was suddenly hit by the gravity of the situation—it was over...wasn't it? She gripped his arm so hard that it hurt. "Gene...what now?"

He glanced at the desk again. "Well...I was thinking—that ticky box..."

She turned her back to him, folding her arms tight so that he couldn't see that she was shaking. "Time for you to go, I suppose. Saddle up your horse and ride out of town."

He leant against the desk and stared at her, irritated. He didn't want to think about the future; only this moment. But she was going to make him do it nonetheless.

She still spoke to the wall rather than him. "You've got your kiss from the girl and then some. Take off your tin star and head to the next world that needs cleaning up."

"Dunno." His sense of defeat made her finally look at him. "Don't know anything in this place. Don't know why you people want to carry a phone in yer pocket. Phones are nothing but a bloody nuisance. I don't know why you need more telly stations if there's still nothing on. I don't know why you birds wear pushup bras under a man's shirt."

He stood before her and cupped her face in his hands. "You're the only thing I know in this world. But you're all I need to know."

She put her hands over his, gripping his fingers as tightly as he'd held Nigel's. "I can't—"

He rested his forehead against hers. "I can't either." They swayed together for a moment.

Their mouths found each other, first as a gentle kiss, then deeper and more frantic, fighting against their fear and anguish. His fingers caged her head, gripping her skull until she moaned. She fumbled with his belt and zip. He found the hem of her snug skirt and wiggled it up, grateful that her legs were bare and her knickers were nothing more than a wisp of satin—he pushed them aside with his seeking fingers.

As they crashed to her desk, he realised this wasn't going to be the trashy fantasy of his sweaty handed days lusting for Bolly. No rutting on her from behind in her thick fur coat like two humping poodles. He wanted to see everything, most of all, her eyes—her bright eyes, shimmering with tears. Papers and folders slid off when he surged into her with one smooth stroke. Damn, he loved doing this...

But the she said, "We shouldn't be doing this—what if someone came in—"

He stopped immediately.

She dug into his bare flank with the heel of her pump and flicked open a couple buttons on her shirt so her panting breaths could lift her lovely tits for his view. Her expression was a mix of real fear and naughty excitement. He took that as encouragement and went back to pounding her. She was right about this; someone could come in at any moment. Best get on with it.

"Oh God, don't let us get caught...Shortest promotion in the history of the Met..." she babbled. He only grunted and gripped the desk for better leverage. Why are we doing this—don't stop," she warned him again.

"No goin' anywhere," he panted. They were going backwards, not forwards in time. He was a bad little boy and she was a filthy tart, ready for any dirty shag. Until her gaze flared, she tossed her head from side to side and gave a bubbling cackle, pressing down on his todger, hard. His eyes rolled back, and all the lights plunged out. This was it—

The clank of the janitor's cart sounded down the outer corridor. Gene grabbed Alex up as though he could hide her from any curious gaze. Clinging to him and still recovering from her orgasm, Alex managed to call out, "I say, could you put the lights back on? We're just finishing up a few things in here." After a long moment, the room lit again. Leaning into his heaving chest, she started to giggle.

After she caught her breath, Gene fell into her chair and could only stare at her. "Bloody hell, woman." He fumbled with his underpants and trousers, fastening up again.

"What?" She clung to the edge of the desk but didn't bother to pull her skirt down.

He looked away quickly. "Get yer knickers straightened," he gasped. "Time's a wasting."

"What now?" she whined, trying to smooth the wrinkles in her previously starched shirt.

"Pub."

Bent over looking for her lost shoe, she blinked from under the curtain of her hair. "Pub?" She was still barely able to stand. She whined, "But I just want to go home and get in bed—" Snaring his fingers, she squeezed his hand. "Doesn't that sound lovely?"

His mind set, he shook his head. "Pub."

xox

Their clothes somewhat back in order, arms wrapped around each other, Alex and Gene pushed through the pub door, not caring who saw. Gene Hunt finally got the girl, and he wanted to make sure every bloke in the place knew what a jammy bastard he was.

Donna called them over to where the team was squashed in at a small table. Gene released Alex long enough to order drinks at the bar, then squeezed in beside her at the table, shouldering aside Rob Welton. He draped his arm across the back of her chair and snugged his thigh tight to hers under the table. Anyone who didn't get the message was bloody blind. Thankfully, Alex did nothing more than give him a shift of her gaze and lay her hand on his leg, a smile playing on her lips. It seemed that he'd made her happy, another win on the day.

Once everyone had a glass, Tabitha took the initiative. "To the Guv," she called out, raising her drink.

Gene nodded, but then raised his pint to Alex. "To the next Guv," he repeated.

Everyone but Ritchie echoed his toast. He said, "I suppose you'll be heading back to Manchester then," his tone nasty as ever. "After all, your assignment is over."

Alex's hand tightened on Gene's thigh.

Gene drained his pint. "Me job's done here," he conceded. With every breath he took, he waited for the tug.

"You have to stay for Molly's birthday. She'd have it no other way," Alex said, her voice filled with desperate optimism.

The others at the table looked uncomfortable, reading the tension between Gene and Alex wrong.

"I'm gonna blow out the candles," he agreed. His fingers curled around Alex's shoulder as though putting down his anchor.

~ end chapter 22

E/N: No, it's not the end/end. A bit more to go (In torturing our readers).


	23. Chapter 23

She's too tired to think about the dirty old dishes in the sink, so she closes her eyes.

_Love is blind. _

She keeps them closed until she sees a shining red light instead of darkness.

_Show me the colour._

Sometimes she thinks she's invisible. They live in their own world, with their own love. She opens her eyes. What are they doing now? Music is playing, something from the eighties, of course.

_Love is rock. _

He's gonna leave this love behind. He'll go, racing off in a red car. He'll go in the night, when the stars are out. He'll go with their ridiculous music playing. She'll hear Eurythmics and David Bowie fading into the night.

_Love is roll._

It's cold now. She closes her eyes and sees more red. A red heart. Red is the colour of love. The colour of her heart beating. The colour of her blood. She wants to know if he'll take her. He loves her, after all. She loves him too.

_Love is pure._

She had a dream once. He drove them to the desert. There was nothing but a red sun and sand. Nothing but a whole heap of nothing.

_Love is hot._

"I just want someone to hold," she whispered in the dream. But he never answered. She was invisible.

Now, she goes to the window and searches out into the night. She can't see him. She can't see her either. He's placed a chill in her heart, her red heart.

_Love is cold._

Bright lights flare out from the corner store. It's late, too late, and no one is at the pedestrian crossing so the red man keeps flashing out into nothing. Red, white, red, white. There's a criss cross pattern over the white lines of the street. A street that's empty, just a whole heap of nothing.

_Love is a religious sign._

"I just want someone to hold," she prays to him.

She wants just a little bit of love. She wants too much.

* * *

Alex and Molly worked together to make up Molly's bed. Once Molly had returned from France, Gene had stripped the sheets and duvet cover and dumped them in the hall, obviously intending the females of the household to launder them to remove what he called 'man stink.' Alex tried not to wonder what he was up to out in the lounge. The TV, which was rarely on during the day, droned just loud enough to be annoying but not enough to actually hear what he was watching.

With a snap of the sheet, Alex decided not to think about Gene Hunt all the time.

"Do you mind him being here?" she asked Molly.

The girl cocked her head. "I expected him to be here," she explained patronisingly. "He promised that he'd stay to watch out for you."

"Well, it's done now." Alex stuffed the pillow in its case. "He'll be...that is, he could be going home."

She and Gene hadn't spoken of what happened next. There really hadn't been time; she'd been intent on Molly returning as soon as possible but with her daughter back, she supposed that she'd have to deal with their future.

"Help me with this," she asked Molly, holding up the duvet cover.

"It's always such a pain," whined Molly, but she grabbed the duvet in her arms and tried to shove it in the cover.

"We need to roll it first," lectured Alex.

The two of them panted and grumbled, straightening the duvet within its cover.

"So you wouldn't mind, if Gene were to stay?" Alex tried to sound casual. "Not live here, of course, but perhaps come around now and then," she hurriedly added.

Molly sat on her bed and Alex waited, her heart thudding. Finally her daughter shrugged. "I guess. It's your life."

"It's _our _life, darling. I wouldn't do anything to upset you and or make you uncomfortable."

"The Guv doesn't upset me or make me uncomfortable." But Molly's face reflected her mother's uncertainty.

"All right then," Alex said, picking up the laundry basket. Not the ringing endorsement that she had hoped for, so it appeared this was a next step that she'd have to make on her own.

Alex carried the basket to her bedroom, making a point not to look in at Gene in the lounge. What was she to do her own personal guardian angel now that his services were no longer required?

She folded towels with jerky motions. And why was there more tension in the flat than when a crazed killer was on their tail?

"What about dinner?"

Alex jumped. "Bloody hell, Gene."

He leaned on the doorjamb and scratched his stomach with the vigour of some old warthog. "Me belly's emptier than a prossie's douchebag."

"Bloody hell, Gene," Alex repeated, her face twisted in disgust.

He thumbed toward the flat's entrance. "I can go pick up some Chinkie."

"Gene!" Alex bellowed.

"Wot!" he barked back.

Suddenly tired, she waved him off. "Just go get us some food."

When he looked like such a lost puppy for a moment before turning away, she almost called him back but she didn't know what she'd say.

Molly enjoyed the greasy and salty Chinese food that he selected. With only his grunts for encouragement, Molly began to shine, finding confidence when he didn't dominate the conversation like many of Alex's previous male friends.

"And they let us drink wine with dinner ―I think that we should drink wine with dinner, Mum." Molly fished out a particularly fatty piece of fried chicken.

"Not sure what vintage would suit this repast, darling," Alex said dryly, poking around for a vegetable on her plate.

"Grog goes with everything," Gene said.

This gained another frown from Alex. Gene didn't know what he was doing wrong, but he'd had enough. After helping the girls clear the table, he announced, "I'll have a fag and get to bed."

"Sure. Fine," Alex said shortly, her arms deep in suds at the sink. She was pathetically glad to have a bit more time until she had to talk to Gene about where they went from here.

After the one hour prescribed television viewing, Molly bathed and readied for bed. Giving her a kiss on the forehead goodnight, Alex finished cleaning up the kitchen and then peeked out the window. Surely Gene had smoked the entire pack in this time.

There was no familiar long body leaning on the teak bench in the garden. Panicked briefly, she noticed the light shining from the basement flat into the dark garden. Furious, she tossed the sponge in the sink. The bastard had done it yet again, retreating to his underground lair like some grumpy dragon.

She checked on Molly and found her daughter asleep. She then locked the door behind her and stormed down the stairs. Pounding on his door until he opened it, she was ready to read Gene the riot act, but faltered when she saw that he was still in his dress shirt, tie loosened, but down to his boxers, his long thin legs just like a crane's. His hair was a bird's nest of bright strands; he'd obviously been running his fingers through it vigorously.

"We have got to get you some jeans and tee shirts. People are going to begin to notice you and wonder what you're about."

He looked down, puzzled.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Thought we needed some space." He'd heard that line on the telly once. Now he knew what it meant.

"Space to do what?" She started to wave her arms around. "Now that you've come over the great divide and saved one last soul, you're going to buy a newsagent stall and start selling racing forms? What's there for you to do but be with me?"

He blinked slowly and pouted. "If that there's a marriage proposal, it's a piss poor one."

"Come on, you," she said, grabbing his arm. "I've left Molly alone upstairs."

He kept protesting, even as he grabbed his still-packed holdall and followed her. "I thought you didn't bring blokes to stay."

Shoving him through the door, she whispered so not to wake her daughter, "You're not some bloke. You're my big lardy bastard."

She pushed him the rest of the way into her bedroom, then popped into the bathroom. To her surprise, he joined her, elbowing her at the sink as they brushed their teeth. His expression looked very determined in the mirror and she decided it wasn't about his commitment to dental hygiene. When they finished, she took a comb to his hair, smoothing it flat to his skull.

"Off with you, silly tart," he grumbled, "I've got to take a slash."

On the note, she retired to her bedroom, tugged on her bedshirt and climbed under the duvet. He padded in shortly afterward, down to his boxers.

"And some proper pyjamas." She was still on a roll.

He slipped out his underpants and tossed them aside. "Wot for? Going to turn me into some granddad?"

When he spooned up behind her, she pulled his arm around her waist. "You are old enough," she mused. The illogic of this whole situation made her start to shake.

His lips pressed behind her ear. "It'll be alright, fine, don't fret, luv," he muttered, trying to reassure her.

"How do you know?" she asked the dark room. "Have you checked in with the boss and he's assured you that this...assignment is permanent?"

"No."

That was Gene all over, no assurances of his own. She reached back and squeezed his bare flank, solid and warm. That would have to do for now. She pushed back against his erection.

"Not with the girl down the 'all," he grumbled, even as his hands stroked up her shirt.

"Is that why you rushed off?"

"Best she thinks that babies are found under a cabbage leaf for a while longer," he said.

She muffled her giggles in the pillow, making sure to press harder against his cock.

"Slapper," he growled.

As way of a reply, she draped her leg back over his hip.

"'spose we could be really quiet," he gasped.

"If that's what you need," she said, her tone patronising even as she wiggled out of her shirt. As they shared a long, mutual sigh, he slid into her from behind. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close, not moving.

"Gene..." she whispered.

His answer was to suckle at her heated skin, shoulder blade, cord of her neck, earlobe.

"Gene..." It was a whine of desperation now.

"I've got you, luv," he promised, finally moving with shallow strokes.

"Oh God," she moaned, as though getting what she wanted was the worse thing ever.

Her breasts, warm and heavy, filled his hands, her nipples as tight as his own with the friction against her back. Their undulating bodies were sealed head to toe. When his thumb circled her clit, his long fingers slid over his own cock, not fully seated. Her body was his; he was a woman; he could feel all her arousal as his own; the knot low is his belly tightening and loosening with each stroke, as if he were the one being penetrated. To keep silent, their orgasms were only waves of heat, washing over their slick skin like a gentle tide. He stifled his gasps of recovery between her shoulders while she panted into her pillow.

"Oh, that was nice," she rasped.

He shifted back to his side of the bed, where the cool sheets shocked him back to his own body and mind. Confused and unsure as to what he'd just experienced, he nonetheless lifted his arm for Alex snuggle close. Damn this place. He'd lost his world, lost his patch, now was losing his balls. And somewhere in time, that bastard Nigel Anthony's hands were awash in fresh blood.

Kissing the top of her head, he muttered, "Let's get some kip." But he lay awake for several hours as she slumbered.

xOx

Morning brought chatter around the breakfast table about Molly's birthday, and what sort of party that she wanted. Gene writhed in his too-small chair, trying to keep his long legs from tangling with mother and daughter.

"Gene, what's wrong with you?" scolded Alex.

"Not my thing, that's all. What've I got to do with all this?"

Molly peered at him from under her eyelashes. "You could blow up the balloons."

He stood quickly, shaking the table. "I'll have a fag."

When finished, he met them out front by the car. "Where're you going?" Alex asked.

"To work; where else?" he said.

"Why?" said Alex. "I mean, your secondment is over, right?" Her gaze slipped to Molly as a way of warning him off.

"I got nowhere else to go," he said, his mouth forming a harsh line.

After dropping off Molly at school, they went into the Yard. The murder boards had been cleared off in the incident room. Gene went to his desk but didn't sit. There was no name sign on it, or even a dirty tea mug or half-used pens. He looked around, but Alex had gone into her office.

He sauntered over to Tabitha's desk and started pestering her, checking on any possible cases to work. Alex observed this from her office and watched the young woman's consternation grow. Something had to be done with Gene, but what? He wasn't some draught horse to pull a plough day after day with a normal police inspector's workload.

Meanwhile, her phone rang, summoning her upstairs to the Chief Constable's office. Her heart beating a bit faster, she hurried out, waving Gene off when he tried to ask where she was going.

He leaned on Donna's desk and stared at his shoes.

"Gotten the call yet?" Donna asked, glancing up from her keyboard.

"The call?"

"To go back to Manchester."

He shoved his fists deep into his pockets. "No, not yet."

"What's the boss to do if you leave?"

He looked at Donna, but she was still typing. "Go on as she did before. She doesn't need any man."

"You're not any man. You're the Gene Genie."

His head snapped around to look at her. She was working on her report. Had she spoken at all?

"Yeah, well, I'm bloody useless at the moment."

He wandered back over to Tabitha's desk. She saw him coming and popped up from her chair. "Let me get you a cuppa," she said with determination.

When the mug was filled, Tabitha pointedly put it at Gene's desk and made her way back to her own work space. Getting a hint, Gene sat in his chair. He fired up the computer and successfully found the search engine. He looked up the Greater Manchester Police. The shiny-faced officers featured on the page made him slightly ill.

Alex returned but before Gene could get to her office, Tabitha and Donna rushed in and closed the door. Frustrated, he went up on the roof for a cigarette. When he returned, Alex beckoned him in before he could even get his overcoat off.

"Gene." She sat behind her deck and he had deja vu only it was topsy turvy. "Could you close the door?"

That didn't bode well. A telling off? But he'd done nothing wrong. He glanced out into the incident room. All the team had been watching his walk of shame, but quickly dropped their gazes to their computers.

He shut the door and turned back to Alex, pushing his lips out in an obstinate pout.

She gave him a weak smile. "Gene―"

"You're tossing me over."

"What?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.

He waved his arms. "I've got no place in this sort of policing―"

Rising from her chair, she came around the desk, leaning on it and snagging one of his hands to squeeze it. "Gene...you've done an amazing job all these years. But you never were a police officer―"

"Oi, I've just been wagging my todger around in the air, taking a piss?" he growled, trying to pull away.

She hung onto his hand, tightening her grip. This wasn't the way that she'd wanted to have this discussion, but as usual, Gene Hunt pushed her to confront situations.

She stated it plainly: "You're not a DCI for the GMP or the Met or any police force, Gene."

He just glared at her.

She kept on with her brutal assessment. "You've not attended Hendon; you didn't even survive your first week as a constable."

He didn't reply. "How can I turn you loose here, even if we could somehow finagle you a spot in the Met?" she asked.

He yanked his hand away. "I've done pretty good since I got here―"

He turned to go. She darted around him to block his leaving. "I know that! But we can't just act like you're―" She waved her hand over him. "Normal."

"I'm the most normal bloke you've ever met," he insisted. "It's all the rest of yous who're nutters."

She could only laugh, letting her forehead rest on his chest to stop her hysteria from growing. He cupped the back of her neck under her hair, holding her close. "It's all going to be fine," he promised.

She took the coward's way out. "Get back to your desk then," she said quietly. "I've got two more days until the big event―"

"What's that?" He'd slipped a hand around her waist while she talked. Might as well cop a feel while he was at it.

"Molly's birthday," she told him. "But after that, we must sort all this out."

"Alright," he agreed. "We'll blow out the candles together and see if wishes can come true."

"You can be such a poet sometimes," she said dryly as she opened the door. She gave him a shove.

Alex had barely finished congratulating herself on handling the situation well when she caught sight of Gene in hot pursuit of a harassed-looking Rob Welton as the sergeant took a call out.

And so the next few days went, with Alex chiding Gene, he sulking at his desk until another copper headed out, and he'd 'just ride along to lend a hand,' there'd be a scene, and she'd call him to the carpet before her desk once again. This time, Alex drove to the scene herself, even though she'd just picked up Molly from school and they had a million things to prepare for the party that evening. She'd just been notified that Gene had yet to return the pistol that he'd checked out during the hunt for Nigel Anthony. She'd promised that she'd bring it back today.

Consequently, she was nearly as furious as the belligerent man seated in the back of an ambulance who was bellowing about suing the Met as blood streamed from his nose. Tabitha circled Gene like a buzzing bee. He was the grumpy black bear, ignoring her as he puffed on a cigarette, his big shoulders hunched.

As soon as the young DC spotted Alex, she changed course and tore over to pour out her tale of woe. "And before I could stop him, he just punched this guy right in the gob!" Tabitha panted out.

"I'm sure," Alex said with a sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Gene receive a call on his mobile. Now what?

Tabitha got her attention again. "It was a simple remand. No need for this sort of force." She clutched her hands together in such a tight grip that Alex could have no other interpretation but that Tabitha was imagining strangling Gene. Alex could sympathise.

Especially when she looked in Gene's direction again to spot him hopping in a cab.

"Bloody bastard," she fumed. Naturally when she rung his mobile, he didn't pick up. She was about to put a trace on the cab, when Donna called out.

"DI Drake, we have a hostage situation at South Bank, in front of the Tate Modern. They need a negotiator."

Shoving her mobile away, Alex dashed to her car. And she still had Molly with her. Damn that man!

xOx

Gene rapped on Ruth Tyler's door and she immediately pulled it open.

"Come in, Mr Hunt." She tugged his arm.

"What can I do you for?" Gene asked, shrugging out of his overcoat.

"It's Heather," Ruth explained, leading him to the lounge. "Or rather, Heather's not here anymore." Her voice shook with tears.

Gene was confused. Ruth's sister was in her chair by the window, just she'd been the last time that he was in the house.

Ruth took her sister's hand. "Her body is here, but she's fallen silent. She hardly speaks, but says nothing about the other times and places."

Gene's throat began to close in panic. "And the telly?"

Ruth sat beside her sister, cradling the other woman's hand. "Nothing. No Sammy, no Annie and the kids..." Tears caught in the creases on her cheeks.

He fell to the sofa. "Dammit―Pardon me, luv."

"It's all right, pet," Ruth said.

"Do you have any idea why?" he asked.

She could just reach her notebook without releasing her sister's hand. She flipped through the pages. "A few days ago, she was chirping like a bird. So many words, I could barely keep up. Then...lights out."

Gene was hungry for any information. "What did she say?"

"She went on and on about Lady Di. I thought perhaps it was a reference to that nice show on the telly about her boys and how well they're doing these days."

Smiling vaguely, Gene leaned forward.

"And then something about a ferry, and crossing the river Acheron, needing a toll." Ruth flipped over the pages.

"Anything else?"

"I thought she was talking about going into space because there was something about Ground Control but then she mentioned Major Tom, so I supposed she was just remembering the song."

Gene rubbed his upper lip with the pad of his thumb, thinking deeply.

"It's not so much what she said as her manner." Closing her book and leaving it in her lap, Ruth took Heather's hand between her two and squeezed it. "She was agitated. As when one can feel a storm coming."

"What can I do for you two?" Gene asked, even though he had nothing to offer.

Ruth was startled. "Nothing, pet. I called you because I fear it's to do with you or Alex."

He jumped up, shaking his head. The bees were still buzzing 'round. "Bugger," he growled. He checked his watch. "Bollocks, speaking of which―"

"What is it?"

"I'm to meet Alex at her flat soon. Nanny duty for the girl. Her birthday party is tonight." Listen to what he'd just said! What had happened to the Manc Lion?

"You'd best go then," Ruth said, urgent.

Still grumbling, Gene accepted his coat.

He gave Ruth a kiss on the cheek and immediately questioned it. He was becoming a right poofter in this world. "Call me if there's anything you need," he made her promise.

The cab dropped him in front of Alex's flat. Her car wasn't in the drive. He checked his mobile, but the only message was her busting his balls about an hour ago.

"Mr Hunt―Gene!"

Gene turned, immediately on alert. That Evan bastard was running up on him, his expression frantic.

"Wot do you want?" Gene snarled.

"I can't reach Alex―"

"She's blocked your calls; that's why."

"She's in danger!"

Blood pounded so loudly in Gene's ears that he could barely hear Evan. Grabbing the other man's arm, he yanked him nose to nose. "What've you done!?"

"This man, this crook, Arthur Layton, he's been bleeding me―"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know! He called, told me that he was tired of my games, that he'd expose me now―"

"You haven't been paying him?"

Evan avoided that question. "He's got Alex! I'm sure of it!"

"When was this call?"

"An hour ago. I came here, hoping she was safe."

"She's not." Gene held out his hand. "Give me your bloody keys."

When Evan did, Gene shoved him out of the way and jumped behind the wheel, cranking the key so hard that it screamed. He fumbled for his phone and dialed Tabitha.

"Where's Alex?"

"Oh, Guv, I've been ringing you!"

His voicemail started dinging faithfully now that he had the phone activated. He really did hate these things.

"Wot!"

"DI Drake did an intervention with a gunman with a hostage earlier. It seemed all clear. But now she's disappeared and the gunman as well."

Gene tossed the phone away, ignoring the chattering faint voice still coming from it. Slamming the car into gear, he tore away from the kerb.

The river―he remembered she was found at the river when she first arrived in his world. The night of Nigel's arrest, Layton's face, leering at him from the darkness at the quay.

The radio was blaring, but he didn't dare try to deal with it. A ghost's voice, urging him on.

_Some of them want to use you...Some of them want to get used by you_

_Some of them want to abuse you...Some of them want to be abused._

_Sweet dreams are made of this_

He hit traffic. Not caring, he passed the slower cars, driving toward oncoming traffic. Let them get out of his way. He couldn't lose her now―was he meant to lose her, no matter what he did?

_I travel the world...And the seven seas...Everybody's looking for something_

The bright glistening of the Thames. He was nearly there. A lorry was coming straight at him, and his lane was still much too slow. He went up on the kerb and drove partly on the sidewalk, knocking bins aside. The blare of horns didn't drown out Annie Lennox, urging him.

_Hold your head up...Keep your head up, movin' on...Hold your head up, movin' on_

Anthony's ship sat dark and empty. Not there, though. It had been something with Lady in the name...It had been a drugs raid of some woofter party with plenty of coke on the tables...the Lady Di!

Sirens were chasing him, but too far away. He was going in alone.

_Sweet dreams are made of this...Who am I to disagree?_

He saw her car, parked dockside, the doors hanging open. Slamming on the brakes right behind it, he started looking frantically around for her.

"Alex!" he bellowed. He'd never been too late to rescue her in his world but this was another place and time.

Drawing his gun, he ran down the gangplank, his heavy footfall reverberating across the water. Ducking into the derelict ship, he was momentarily blind in the darkness. Two figures. One kneeling, one standing with a dark gun.

"Gene!" gasped Alex, her white face all that he saw.

The man with a gun loomed over her and turned to face him. Greasy curls, a sneer, mirrored aviator glasses masking his eyes. A second ticked off the clock. Muzzle faced muzzle across the deck. Gene saw his reflection in the glasses' sheen. His furious face in the right eye, the terrified expression of a boy constable in the other.

Their guns roared. Darkness fell.

End ~ Chapter 23

E/N: Nope, not done yet.


	24. Chapter 24

_Aussiegirl41 and I started this story on November 11th, 2014. We don't know if it's a horror that it took us this long to finish or good on us for not leaving yet another WIP twisting in the wind. But for our dignity, we're posting a day before it'll be two years. We really appreciate the support of readers who stuck with us this whole time, particularly Curms, Elle, Ella who faithfully reviewed in guest status so we couldn't reply. Hope that you enjoy the ending! _

* * *

Head thumping, terrible awful headache. The press of his pen on his temple and case folders against his stubbled cheek. Just sleeping one off, that's what he's been doing. The whisky dreams have been stronger than usual, but that's all they are, the pathetic brain dribbles of a lonely pisser. He pushes upright off his desk and blinks the grit from his eyes.

_There are the days — it never rains but it pours._

He can barely stand. Stumbling to the file cabinet, he finds his shaver and a half empty bottle. He can't feel the rotating blades on his skin, nor the burn of liquor down his throat.

The letters on his office door...He stares for a long time until he realises they spell his name backwards. Pulling open the door, he looks round the CID. It's coming to be that he can't recognise most of his lads. Just faces...so many faces.

_Splits a family in two._

One curly mop catches his eye.

"Poirot," he barks. "Let's go for a ride."

The streets are slick and dark but he drives with confidence. Angel Station. Now he knows who he's looking for—a smirking little demon. He must have been in the other world to learn the killer's identity and ways. Now to stop him before he grows into a full-fledged serial murderer.

_It's the terror of knowing what this world is about._

Ignoring Poirot's babbling questions, he leaves him in the car. He moves silently through the alley, remembering where the final victim had been found.

_People on streets… People on streets..._

A shadow takes shape, looming over a pool of dark blood. A tattered white angel tries to swim in the puddle, her wings drowning. He's too late. The demon grins at him, satisfied with his work.

"Piss off, you bugger," it growls.

This is what guns are for. He cocks his Magnum. The rat bares its filthy teeth. He fires as it springs—Layton's sunglasses reflecting the shotgun barrels pointed at his face. When his vision clears, the rat has scurried away, heading into into the station, seeking a dark, deep hole to hide in.

_Insanity laughs…_

Running boots on tiles, chasing the rat's flicking tail. Clattering down stairs, bullets ricocheting off the walls, the scream of the trains getting louder and louder. On the platform, the light shines out of the tunnel, blinding him. One bullet left for the rat.

_Sat on a fence but it don't work..._

Then he is falling, falling, thrashing against the rat's grip, the weight pushing him down to the tracks. The hysterical wheels are over them, drowning out any fear. Gasping for life, he breaths in only blood and darkness.

_This is our last dance. This is ourselves. Under Pressure._

xox

The Quattro speeds through the streets. It takes all of his concentration to keep it on the tarmac. He can't remember where he was going or why. Only feels the burning urgency, a painful bile in his throat. Then he sees the looming brick edifice on a knoll ahead. Alex Price's posh girls' school. Was it the day, the time? He pushes harder on the accelerator.

_A lovestruck Romeo, sings in the streets a serenade._

A lumbering lorry eases out into the road, blocking his way. _ Gently Does It_—He slams on the brakes and they smoke and scream as the rear tyres lift off the ground.

He flings himself out the driver's door. He has to carry Alex away, but this time, not give her over to that bastard Evan. He will raise her as his own...girl. His stomach takes an uncomfortable twist at his heart's confusion. He circles the back of the lorry, frantically searching the grassy slope for a little girl with a red balloon.

_Finds a street light, steps out of the shade._

Nothing. But he sees the small blue car stop at the kerb. The balloon rises, the girl is out the rear passenger door—The sun is orange, then white, burning his vision. Its rays spread wide, engulfing him with heat. His skin crackling, he pushes forwards into the explosion.

"Alex!" he yells. "Alex!"

_The dice was loaded from the start._

There's a crumpled pile of black rags on the turf. He paws through it, looking for his little girl. Her face, grey as a ghost. Her golden eyes blank, the eyelashes burned away.

_Then you exploded in my heart._

"No, no!" He clutches her to his chest. Nothing. Nothing is left of her. "No, Alex," he whispers.

_And I forget, I forget, the movie song._

He feels more than hears the second explosion. The car, a blackened skeleton, shatters into a thousands flying shards. His body is pierced as with arrows. He covers Alex with his black wings and they settle together to the earth.

_When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong._

xox

The woods are dappled with sunlight and shadows. Leaves crunch under his shoes. He's following Mrs Tyler.

"Ruth," he yells at her but she only hurries faster. A slip of brightness, blonde hair flashing in the sunlight. She has to have the answers; she always had before.

_Well you can twist and shout._

Shots and muffled screams; Ruth runs towards the sounds. He hears her call out, "Sammy!"

He runs too, the branches slapping his face and tangling in his hair. A glen held in the filtered light. A tangle of bodies. Annie, in a red dress, holding a little boy as if to comfort him, blood pooled under them, staining the moss dark. His fingers seeking pulses finds nothing but still flesh.

_Let it all hang out._

A moan. Ruth Tyler clutching her hands, biting her knuckles, staring at him in anguish. "DCI Hunt," she whispers. Her formality shakes him to his feet. "You're not meant to be here."

_No no no._

"Mrs Tyler, you've got to help me." He's a stinking coward, begging a woman for freedom while his loafers fill with her boy's blood. He doesn't even know what he's asking for.

"You shouldn't be here," she repeats. "This isn't your place."

A branch breaks. His head shoots up. Vic Tyler steps from behind a tree, holding a gun. "I have to do this," he insists. The barrel wavers as though the weapon is too heavy.

_Well you can tear a plane._

"Vic, what've you done?" Ruth asks. "Why—"

"She knew...and then he saw what I did...and I had to do it," blubbers Vic.

_In the falling rain._

Ruth squares her shoulders. "Now you'll have to do it to me," she says coldly.

_I drive a Rolls Royce._

Vic shoots her cleanly and she drops silently to the ground, still staring him down with contempt.

_Cause it's good for my voice._

He isn't going to go quietly. "You bastard!" he hisses, lunging towards Tyler. The gun roars again as if surprised by his attack. He falls heavily, draping Ruth in his golden coat.

_No no no._

"I'm sorry," he hears Vic say from a long distance off. He smells the loam under his nose, and the scent of crushed leaves and hot fresh blood. But he can't lift his head. It's much too heavy. He will sleep now.

_But you won't fool the children of the revolution._

xox

He drags himself to the useless shelter of the tunnel entrance. Annie helps to prop him up against the wet stone wall. Ray and Chris shuffle after them to huddle together. Their attackers were giving them a brief reprieve. No escape anyway.

_The soldier blues were trapped on a hillside._

Annie fastens her silk scarf around his upper thigh, trying to stem the waves of blood draining from his gunshot wound.

"No hope, girl," he mutters.

"I've got my first aid badge, remember," she says, trying to keep her sense of humour.

"Thanks, doctor," he says, daring to cup her cheek. His fingers leave streaks of blood.

_The battle raging all around._

His force is draining like his blood. The gunfire has stopped coming from the train. The bastards knew it wasn't necessary any longer. The coppers are trapped like rats in a sewer. Chris sobs in the darkness. Ray curses endlessly, spitting bile between the words.

_The sergeant cried, we've got to hang on, boys._

This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He fumbles for his cigarettes and lights one with shaking hands. He hates to see the tremble in his fingers.

"We're gonna be fine," Annie says, peering into the light at the tunnel's mouth. "You'll get us out of this."

"We need Sam," Gene says flatly. "He's part of the team."

_We've gotta hold this piece of ground._

The wrong man appears at the tunnel's entrance. One of the attackers, sawn off shotgun in one hand, tugs off his balaclava with the other. The armed bastard has no fear of being identified.

Impotent and unarmed, he bites down on his anger.

_I need a volunteer to ride out and bring us back some extra men._

Annie looks not at the entrance, but into the darkness of the tunnel's depths. "Sam!" she cries out, leaning forwards as though she sees something. "Sam, help us!"

He thinks he spots a shadowy figure approaching too. He joins her in calling for help. "Tyler, he's going to kill us!"

He hears the shotgun pump behind him but he doesn't dare look. Sam steps forwards, looking not at them, but at the shooter. He raises his gun, steadying it in both hands. Until he fires, he couldn't believe he would do it. Only then did he look, in time to see the gunman twist and fall dead.

_And Billy's hand was up in a moment._

Tyler strolls up with the gunslinger's slow walk to stand over him and Annie.

"Now you're just showing off," he grumbles, relief's weakness making him slump further down the wall.

Sam ignores him. "You okay?" he asks Annie.

She can only nod and wipes his blood from her face with the back of her hand.

"Told you I wouldn't leave you," Sam says gently.

_Forgetting all the words she said._

"Oh, lucky us," he groans.

Sam finally addressed him. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Is that it?" He can't feel his arms or legs. The gunshot is no longer the hot brand burning into his thigh. His lips are cold, barely able to hold his fag. The ash is drifting down, caught on his black jacket.

Sam crouches before him and he manages to flinch away from his pal's concerned touch. "Come here," Sam chides him.

He finds some energy to bellow, "Get off! I'm not a fairy!" but then slumps forward. Daylight is fading in the tunnel.

_She said, Billy don't be a hero._

"Gene, Gene, are you still with us?" Sam asks. He eases him to the ground, rolling him onto his back.

"Don't think so," he gasps. "Not much longer, at least. Last gunfight at the OK Corral, it seems."

"Oh, sir," Annie says and that affects him deeply.

He can only gaze up at Annie and Sam's worried faces. He doesn't remember it ending like this...so odd.

_Don't be a fool with your life._

Sam holds his hand like some girl, but he no longer has the strength to fight him. "Help's on the way. Hang in there."

"There's no help," he says definitely. He's beginning to shake. Not much time left now. "Sam, you're gonna have to take over the CID," he gets out. "Be the new sheriff."

"Dammit, Gene, I can't—"

"You will." So strange...not the way it should end at all, but he knows Sam will be up to the job...

The tunnel falls into darkness.

_Billy, don't be a hero, come back to me._

xox

"I don't expect to get shot in the head and come out as shiny as Yul Brynner's melon, but nothing's right." His skull is solid again, but the scar is a dry riverbed on his skin, dividing day from night. He runs his fingertip up and down the furrow.

Her voice is flat. "A sense of dislocation is natural. The places that you've been in your subconscious must feel very real."

Bloody psychiatrist reading lines from the self-help book she bought on her lunch hour.

_There's a fire starting in my heart._

"It was real," he insists. "You weren't there. You don't know."

She's not shocked. "Are you still hearing voices?"

The square outside the window is full of brats and their mums in yoga pants and oversized jumpers, all posh twats with a mobile in one hand and a Starbucks cup in another.

"Gene?"

"Not anymore."

"But you're dreaming about her." It's not a question.

_Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out of the dark._

A tart in red silk, lips like sugared candies, heavy lids drooping over amber eyes, curls that hide her smirk of derision. She sashays through the station halls, her shadow long as a spider's. Fingers trailing along his chest, palm pressed to his thundering heart. You're real.

_Finally I can see you crystal clear._

"Course I'm glad to be back."

"After a traumatic injury, the real world can be frightening," she suggests.

"Because it's not as real as the one I left," he blusters.

"You're isolating yourself. You've left your wife—"

_Go ahead and sell me out._

"I've got to deal with this by myself." There's only one woman for him now and he sees her everywhere, even in the faded linen features of this rent-a-quack.

She leans forward finally, coming out of the room's shadows. "So you want to return?"

_And I'll lay your shit bare._

"I keep telling myself that it's all in me head. But Sam Tyler went there too. Or someplace. He told me that when he woke up, he could still hear them calling for help; calling to him. And he heeded the call." Sam's body, a crumpled pile of trash on the sidewalk outside the Manchester police building. "What if it was a real place? What if Sam and me had a purpose there?"

"Gene, Sam Tyler is dead. The world you described isn't real."

The clock makes a scratching noise. "Session's up, right, Doc?"

"Gene, if you need more time—"

"The Boss ordered me to see you. I've seen you."

"Gene—I'm worried about you."

"Next week at three, right? I come here to keep me job. That's all."

_See how I leave with every piece of you._

Knocked down to the shift night shift means that drinking has to be done early. A couple Scotches and the worlds all waver and shimmer in the golden liquid in the glass.

The voicemail chimes on his mobile. When did he miss the call? No one would call him anyway. The Missus is taking comfort in a bed of nails with his old partner Keats. One plain-clothes dick is as good as the other, it seems.

The message: _Gene, the swelling on your brain's gone down. The doctor says there's no reason for you to still be in the coma. We need you, Gene. I need you...I've never said that to any bloody man and now you're not even here to hear it. And I guess I love you and I thought you probably love me too but now—what now?_

He slams the mobile down on the tabletop until the screen cracks. A game of poker; that'll clear his mind. The fruit spins on the machine, comes up three lemons...The screen sparks and shifts. The tom in red, leans forward to give him a good look at her tits. _ What's the point of staying there, Gene? That other bird can't do what I do for you. There'll never be another woman like me. _

His shift's on. He's late.

_Don't underestimate the things that I will do._

But as he hurries to the station, he sees a couple arguing on the corner. He recognises the familiar hunch of a down-beaten woman's shoulders, the twisted features of an angry man hissing abuse. Best to do his duty and break it up.

"Oi, push off." Yanks the man off; he's white-haired, wrinkled features, but his eyes are young with hate. The woman...the woman he knows.

"Gene, leave us. It's my father; he isn't well."

The man gets between them, in his face. He spits when he raves: "Fuck off, you Cockney turd."

_There's a fire starting in my heart._

That's all it took. "I'm not some Millwall football fan!"

"Gene, let go of him!"

"Doc, just say the word and I'll nick this old bastard—"

"Can't do that; he's all I have left in the world," she says, tears in her eyes. He's never noticed how lovely her eyes are before.

_Reaching a fever pitch._

A passing cab hailed. The still babbling man shoved inside. "Tower o' London," is the command.

"DCI Hunt, what the hell have you done!" She leans against the wall, scrubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands.

_And it's bringing me out of the dark._

A fag lit to calm his nerves. "Doc, what the hell are youdoin'? Why should I take any advice from you if you can't even keep dear old Dad from slagging on you in the street?" A few drags calm his nerves. Could use another drink though. The time. "Bloody hell. I've gotta leg it."

He leans in close to examine her face. "You gonna be alright?"

She turns away, an ashamed little girl caught crying. "It's nothing, Gene. Nothing."

_The scars of your love remind me of us._

His watch says it's too late. Too late to rescue this princess from her orge father for sure. "I've got to get to work." He lit off, but stops. "But at my next appointment, we're gonna talk. Okay, Doctor Price?"

"Alright, DCI Hunt." She's gone before he does something foolish.

_They keep me thinking that we almost had it all._

The corridor of the station echoes empty under his footfall. A deep shadow shifts, catching his eye. "Skip, what're you doin' here? You should be on your second round by now."

"Just checking the gun inventory, Guv," is Viv's easy answer, but his eyes shift away.

"Alright then." He smells fear, danger, the whiff of sulphur.

_The scars of your love, they keep me breathless._

Head to the office, but wait inside the door in the dark and wait. The hunter watches, his eyes adjusting to the dim.

Finally, prey; a young man. A blaggard, not a copper. "You got it, Viv?"

"I got it."

"Give it to me."

"I need your promise. Carl will be taken care of."

"course. Give it over."

The flash of steel passing between the two men.

_I can't help feeling, we could have had it all._

Time for the sheriff to clean up some filth. Even if it's his own force. "What's all this?"

The bright steel is revealed again.

"Don't do it, Stan!" Viv yells but it's too late.

_You're gonna wish you never had met me._

Another flash of light, a thump against his heart, and the sudden drop of the black curtain. He wouldn't make the appointment after all.

_Rolling in the deep._

xox

With a painful groan, he wakes leaning back in his office chair. He scrubs his sore head and squints in the flickering light. This is all bloody rot. He glares at the portrait of the queen as though this is her fault.

Finally he pushes up from his desk. Might as well get on with it. Head to the boozer, drink until he can't think of her, of Sam, of his brother, of the lads all gone, all the fine ladies who'd served with him...damn, he's thinking of Alex again.

_It was a theme she had on a scheme he had, told in a foreign land._

He leans against the door jamb and lights a cigarillo. Through the haze of smoke, he looks around the CID with discontent. Who are these jokers? He used to know every name, every story...Now they were just bodies. Once again, Poirot is the only one worth his effort. That old tosser has been here too long, truth be told. It's time he headed along as well.

Grinding out his smoke in his desk ashtray, he barks for Poirot to join him for lunch.

Since Luigi had gone home, the CID has started frequenting a pub close to the river called The Ferryman. They have a couple pints, joined by a few detectives from the squad. Ignoring the rehashing of cases going on around him, he smokes and remains lost in his own thoughts. Eternity isn't much fun these days, what with all these bloody crazy dreams...they're dreams, aren't they?

_To take life on earth to the second birth, and the man was in command._

He signals for a whisky chaser. When he'd drained the glass, he tells Poirot, "Let's move it on." He's restless tonight.

The two men amble through the streets, no place in particular to go. He lets his feet carry them in the right direction.

"Care for one more?" he asks Poirot, stopping before another brightly lit pub.

"Getting to closing time," Poirot notes, squinting at his watch.

"There's still time." He holds the green door open, and the warm wave of noise and light poured out.

_It was a flight on the wings of a young girl's dreams that flew too far away._

With a shrug, Poirot mounts the step and enters the pub. He starts to close the door.

""ey, mate!" calls out a friendly voice from behind the bar. "Come on in!"

He hangs on the handle. "Don't think I should, Nelson."

The publican comes around the bar. "Just one. It's on the house."

"Hold on there," calls out a woman's soft voice, somehow carrying through the rabble of male pub chatter. "It's my round."

"Annie," he says, putting one foot over the threshold. "Sam here tonight?"

"He's got a shift," she says, giving him a stern glare. "Now that he's DCI, there's a lot more late nights."

He feels a twinge of guilt. "Sorry about that."

"Sam''s loving it. It's what he was born for, really," she says, reaching out for his hand. "Come on in. Everyone's been waiting ever so long for you to show up."

He glances over his shoulder. The street is empty. No Keats-shaped shadow under a street lamp.

_Come from greed, never borne of the seed. Took a life from a barren hand. _

"'spose one can't 'urt." He steps in. The door snicks shut.

He's swept into the crowd. So many familiar faces. Slaps on the back, rounds bought, cigars lit. But his gaze keeps searching, not finding her.

Surprised that he still needs a slash here, he excused himself to go the gents. In the corridor, the noise abate a bit. He stops to catch his breath, and notices the sign over a frosted glass door: Ladies Saloon. His bladder's call forgotten, he pushes through the door.

Bolly sits at a small table covered in red velvet. The colour brings a glow to her cheeks, but the sparkle in her eyes is surely for him. She grins. "At last! It's almost too late."

_Oh, eyes wide like a child in the form of man._

He sinks to the chair across from her. "Too late for what?" is all he could find to say.

"To help me blow out the candles, silly," she says, taking his hand. He winds his fingers with hers, suddenly struck dumb now that he's with her.

Finally he chokes out, "Not yet, eh? We haven't had a proper catch-up."

She cocks her head and does a reasonable approximation of his pout. "Alright then." She shifts her attention to the TV up on the wall. "News is nearly over."

_A prophecy for a fantasy._

The newsreader finishes his last story. "Now for commentary, we turn to Sam Tyler."

That gets his attention. He twisted in his chair to watch.

The screen switches to Sam leaning forwards in a chair, legs crossed, turtleneck with corduroy jacket, very serious. "You think it's as simple as this, Gene?"

"Wot?" he replies, confused.

Sam explains, patronising as always: "That simply coming inside was your final choice?"

Alex rises from the table and goes to the saloon doorway, seemingly not noticing Sam on the telly.

Sam keeps talking. "I guard the doors, you see."

_The curse of a vivid mind._

"A tiler," Gene said.

"There's one more door." Sam peaks his fingertips and leans forward to the camera. "Are you going through?"

_Don't push too far, your dreams are china in your hand._

Alex ushers in a barmaid, carrying a birthday cake with glowing candles atop. "Right here, please," she tells the woman, motioning to the middle of their shared table.

"What's this?"

"I've been waiting to blow out the candles on Molly's cake," she says, taking her seat again. "For you to do it with me."

"Are you going through?" Sam says.

_Don't wish too hard, because they may come true, and you can't help them._

He looks through the flickering flames at Alex—no, she was Bolly. He could tell the difference now.

"Show's over," she says. The TV has gone black.

He grabs her hand and squeezes it. "I—"

"Take care of Molly for me," she asks, her voice cracking. "Be your unbreakable self for her."

"Always, Bolly."

They lean together towards the cake. "I shouldn't leave you," he quickly says. But she blows the candles out. The flames flare up, wavered, then darkness fell. The last thing he sees is the golden glow of her eyes. Her hand squeezes his fingers hard. "Take care of my girl," she calls out one more time.

Her fingers, wrapped around his...He couldn't return the force of her grip. His hand was as weak as a wet tea towel. Still, his flex of his fingers must have been enough.

_You don't know what you might have set upon yourself. China in your hand._

"Gene, Gene...Are you there?"

He supposed that he should open his eyes. "Yeah," he grumbled. He needed a drink. His throat had never felt so dry.

"Gene, come back to me." Her voice sounded as strained and tired as his.

He forced his eyes open. All white...was this the next place? He was on some fluffy cloud, he supposed, in a white gown...The beeping of a heart monitor. An I.V. tube snaking down to his arm...Hospital.

He focused on the white circle hovering over him. Washed-out pale face, her eyes dark with fear, tears balanced on her eyelashes. Freckles scattered over the familiar planes of her features. Limp hair messily shoved behind her ears. The bump on the left side of her nose. The scent of tea tree shampoo and public washroom hand soap. Alex. His Alex. He could tell them apart now.

"Gene," she breathed through cracked lips.

"I'm 'ere..." he mumbled, "couldn't miss the girl's birthday."

"You did though, by a week." Alex smoothed his thatch of hair poking from the bandages around his temples. "But I think this is your birthday today." Her voice wavered. "My bouncing nicotine-stained baby boy."

He grumbled but it died in his chest before he could argue. He was so bloody tired. He'd run a thousand miles in a week. A kip sounded about right...

Her heart thumped irregularly as Alex watched his eyelids slide shut again but she reassured herself by resting her fingers on his pulse. The beats remained even and strong and his chest rose and fell without medical aid.

When he'd crashed to the deck of the dilapidated boat, she'd scrambled to him, wanting to at least hold him as he turned to ashes in her hands. He wasn't real—he couldn't die—so the pooling blood under his head could only mean that he was slipping from her world.

The EMT's had found a pulse, the doctors had assured her that there was still brain function, but she just hadn't believed it. No one she truly wanted ever stayed for her.

Just in case, she remained at his bedside day after day. Donna stayed at her flat with Molly and Tabitha dropped off fresh clothing. That's when she brought odd news as well.

"DI Drake, when DCI Hunt comes to—" Tabitha said it with determination. "His paperwork came through. He must have asked to be transferred?"

"What?"

"His transfer from Manchester to the Met. They've given him a substation in the Docklands."

"What?" Alex couldn't stop saying it.

Tabitha had started to talk very slowly, as though Alex was the one with the head injury. "DCI Hunt has been transferred to the Met," she repeated.

"But that can't be—" Alex had stared down at Gene. His eyes twitched under the eyelids but the rest of him remained completely still.

"Perhaps he meant it as a surprise for you," Tabitha suggested.

"Yes," Alex said slowly, "he is a man of mystery."

Tabitha had convinced Alex to head home for a shower and she'd stay watching Gene. With a slim bit of hope to hang onto, Alex had gone.

When she returned, she'd spotted a familiar woman in the corridor. "Mrs Tyler," she'd called out, catching the older woman's attention.

"Alex, you've come—"

"Mrs Tyler, you heard—"

Both women talked over each other for a minute.

"It's my sister, Heather. First she stopped seeing things, now she's catatonic. The doctors are thinking it's a stroke. Considering her other problems, they say it's just a matter of time now."

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Tyler." Alex sank to a chair and Ruth sat beside her. "It's Gene," Alex explained. "He's been shot."

Now it was Ruth's turn to express her sorrow. "That can't be," she said, taking Alex's hand.

"I don't want to lose him, but I know that he has to go." Alex looked down the corridor toward his room, dread rising.

"Does he?"

"How can he stay?"

"He's got you now."

Alex had clamped down hard, biting back all the denials that came so automatically. "I suppose. If he wants me—"

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Pet, how can you even say that?" Alex dipped her head instead of replying. "Perhaps with Heather gone soon, there's a place for him here."

"I should get back." Alex had fled, needing to touch Gene's cold unmoving arm for what little comfort it gave her.

He woke to gunfire. Jerking upright, he nearly pulled out his I.V. tubes.

"Gene!" Alex was still there, holding his hand tightly.

He found the source of the sound. The telly was going.

Alex grabbed a remote and stilled the image. Black and white figures froze on the screen.

"Wot's that?" Gene mumbled.

She brought a water glass to his lips and he drank thirstily.

"One of your favorite films. I'd hoped that you'd come back if you heard the dialogue." Her self-deprecating laugh was weak.

"High Noon." Yes, there was the long figure of Gary Cooper, gun drawn.

Alex started the movie again. "It's nearly over."

Gene leaned back against the pillows. "Yeah."

Alex shoved him over gently in the bed and crawled up beside him. "I haven't seen this in years. Watched it in a Comparative Visions of Policing in Popular Culture course—"

"Course you did." Gene drained the water glass. He could do with Scotch.

She gave him a poke in the side so he had to look down into her eyes. "Surprised it's your favourite, really."

He leant his head on her shoulder, feeling slightly girlie for doing it, and ignored her prattling. There was a gunfight going on after all.

Alex nattered on. "—As this film represents a turning point in American film's depiction of the lawman as self-sacrificing saviour. John Wayne hated it."

"Huh?" Gene peered at her. Unusually he'd ignore her analysis, but she'd brought up the Duke.

She nodded toward the TV. "The ending."

He watched. The gun battle that was so familiar with raged on the screen. As always, he was worried that Grace Kelly would die, but Cooper saved her as always. The townspeople eased out from their hiding spots to congratulate Cooper. What was Alex on about?

Then a buggy pulled up and Grace got in. Cooper looked to the crowd and pulled off his marshal's badge. He dropped it in the dirt and ground it into the dust with his boot's heel. Gene gasped.

"Yeah," Alex said, lacing her fingers in his to comfort him.

"That's—that's not the way it ends," Gene insisted as Cooper got in the buggy and drove out of town with his wife. But the credits started to roll.

"It was a rejection of the hero status—" Alex droned.

Gene held up his hand to silence her. "That's not the way it ends," he insisted. He must be in another world.

"How did your version end?" she asked him quietly.

"The gunfight. Coop faces them alone and kills 'em all." Gene furrowed his brow. His noggin hurt like hell. "I'd sneak into the pictures every Saturday. I was in me seat at the back as always, and this big plonk grabbed me by the scruff and dragged me out. Pissed me off proper. Best flick ever and I'd not see...the end," he finished slowly.

"You never saw it again?"

"Nah. Joined the National Service after that. This copper was spewing at me that I had to decide, was I gonna be a thief all me life and right then and there, I thought, I want to be big bastard like him, cracking heads. Not be that bloke shitting his shorts."

She gave a watery laugh. "Whatever worked."

"S'pose," he muttered. The final credits ended. "That's really the end?"

"Yes, Gene," she said quietly.

He leaned back into the pillows and stared at the blank white ceiling.

"Tabitha came by when you were...gone. She has some surprising news."

He was only half-listening. "Yeah?"

"The Chief Constable finalised your assignment to the Metropolitan Police Force. You're to be the DCI in the Dagenham Station's CID." Alex pulled out a leather case from the bedside table's drawer. She flipped it open. His scowling mug looked up at them from a warrant card.

That got his attention.

"I was a bit shocked myself," she said, "I ran a background check on you. You exist, Gene."

"Wot?"

"Gene Hunt, born 1960, Manchester Royal Infirmary. Altrincham Grammar School, three years with the King's Regiment infantry serving in Cyprus, training at Sedgley Park before joining the GMP, marriage to some woman named Holly Sutherland and divorce four years ago. All there."

His head hurt in a different way. "How?"

She slid off the bed and started to pace. "I don't know. I mean, I could see if I were crazy and imagined all this...perhaps I'd internalized Sam Tyler's fantasies..." She put her hands on her hips. "But you believe it all too, right?"

He didn't ever want to forget. He didn't want to go back, but he couldn't forget all the men and women who'd come before and had sacrificed their lives in service. "It all happened. I was shot and died on the second of June, 1953."

"Yes." She nodded with certainty. "We saw the body, but—"

"Let me guess. It's disappeared out of that James Bond lab."

"No, but the report now says it's a body from the 1990's." She fought a smile. "And it's female."

His outraged huff made her give a watery laugh. When she recovered, she promised: "We won't ever forget him—you."

But he knew they would. And perhaps that was alright.

"You don't have to leave that tin star on the ground. You can pick it back up, if you want that ending." She focused on her clenched hands. "I mean, just because you're staying doesn't mean that we have to—it's your life now." She felt very noble and hollow-hearted.

The silly tart had the wrong end of the stick as usual. Better move things along. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, wavering a bit. Only to discover the gown's back was open, leaving his arse flapping in the breeze. Hardly do to ask a bird to be your missus while half-naked. Best to wait.

"Right," he barked.

"Wot?" she asked, echoing his tone. Her chin up, hands still braced on her hips.

"Right, if you'll have me." he muttered staring at his bare feet.

"Oh." She crossed her arms. "Well, yes. Right."

"Alright. That's settled," he said with great relief. Maybe he could manage here after all.

She started acting like a missus right off. "You shouldn't be up yet," she fussed at him. "Your I.V.—"

"Can't be laying about. It's my birthday, remember?"

"Would you like a party?" She was crying but smiling too.

"With chocolate, and crisps, and fizzy pop, and chocolate cake," he said with one of his sideways smiles.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed him tight as though to assure he was all there. "Happy birthday, Gene Hunt."

He cupped her cheek. The floor felt solid under his bare feet, the sunlight through the window made him squint. This was real enough for him.

"But—" she started to say.

"Always have to have the last word—"

"As delightful as a repast of processed sugar and fats sounds, you know what I've been craving while living on hospital canteen food for a week?"

"What's that?" His fingertips had found a bit of bare skin between her shirt and trousers to caress.

"Dover sole. Just a lovely piece, pan-fried, lemon and capers—"

"I s'pose I could choke that down." He tugged loose a strand of her hair from behind her ear and wound it around his finger into a curl.

"And some champagne to celebrate. A nice bottle of Bollinger—" She froze. "Oh, I wasn't thinking. I can—"

"No. She'd approve." He cleared his throat. "Dover sole was her favorite."

"Okay, Bolly too," she said. "Always Bolly."

~The End


End file.
